


Vigilance IV: The Ties That Bind

by nightinngales



Series: Vigilance [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/F, Heavily Based on Vigilant Mod by Vicn, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Mod References, Modded Skyrim, Occasional lore adjustments - Lore Purists need not apply, see author's note for more info
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 80,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22031806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightinngales/pseuds/nightinngales
Summary: Eres returns to the Vigilants to finish up the investigation at Windhelm following the events of Dawnguard. True to her suspicions, the incident in the Windhelm Dungeons seem connected to Molag Bal himself. As if the looming threat of Molag Bal is not enough, Eres also has to worry about her new calling as Dragonborn - but she may not have the luxury to pursue that role when she's piqued the interest of a malevolent deity.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn & Serana, Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Serana
Series: Vigilance [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585780
Comments: 37
Kudos: 123





	1. Penance

**Author's Note:**

> This act picks back up the Vigilant mod storyline - and diverges a bit from the mod canon. If you've played the mod, this part will be notably different from the mod itself, so there will be new things for you as well. This act also gets considerably darker than previous acts - please review the warnings.
> 
> Additionally, later in the act there will be quite a few lore references - some of these may be adjusted slightly for established lore for the sake of the plot. Please keep this in mind when reading if something seems "off" from what you might remember from the games. In the future I will have a page cataloging any significant lore changes for easier reference.

ACT IV  
CHAPTER I  
PENANCE

Eres had been weak. 

On the return from Castle Volkihar, she had followed alongside the caravan of Dawnguard soldiers for nearly the entire two days it took to return to Fort Dawnguard. She should have split off at the fork near Whiterun, followed that road up to Windhelm.

Isran hadn’t asked her why she’d tagged along. Eres hadn’t been sure if she would have been able to answer, even if he had. Perhaps part of her had just wanted to remain in the in-between of shouldering responsibilities. Bask a little longer in the feeling that her work was done, and she was free to do as she pleased. Delay her trip to Windhelm a little longer, because she knew what was waiting for her there. And worse, she dreaded what else might be waiting for her there as well.

But Isran had said nothing, and Eres did not explain, and so instead of splitting off where she should have, Eres followed alongside them until Riften, and then finally, she convinced herself to leave. They split ways, Eres excusing herself to find the familiar paths that would lead her to the tower that was Stendarr’s Beacon.

If she was going to waste time, Eres had thought, she might as well have an excuse to do so.

Even so, she spent as little time there as she could. She checked in with the Vigilants there, perhaps even more fractured and dwindled down than the Vigilants in the North. They’d named a new Keeper for themselves, following the deaths of both Jacob and Keeper Carcette; a staunch, dreary thing of a man who called himself Sten. She still isn’t sure if that’s his actual name, or if he was simply so full of himself that he’d named himself after his own god.

Sten was a hulking brute of a man, all hard lines and sharp angles, but with a deceptively soft-spoken manner about him. There was a gentleness, a compassion in his eyes that Eres immediately liked. She had no complaints for his leadership, especially when he showed her the bricked-over hatch that had once led into the basement – and Molag Bal’s ancient altar beneath it. He, as he told her, would make certain that it would never see the light of day again.

It settled her to see it, and, feeling better for the delay now that it had allowed her to learn such a thing, Eres returned to Riften. Even months later, she could not bring herself to sleep within the walls of the Beacon, whether they had sealed the basement off or not. Not when she could remember so vividly what had happened there. Not when she could still see the bodies in her mind’s eye. Not when she swore she saw the glimmer of ethereal forms in the corners of her vision, more than once.

Stendarr’s Beacon was nothing more than a bad memory, a reminder of times past. She couldn’t so much as look at the walls without seeing the echoes of blood splattered across them. She could not sleep there.

Riften, unfortunately, was not much better. Even walking the streets above brought to mind what lingered beneath—the Ratway tunnels underground where she had first encountered Jo’vanni, the cat that had been manipulated by the summoner she and Altano had been chasing. The summoner that, even now, Eres is not entirely sure ever existed. They’d never caught her, for all she apparently existed. Perhaps that hagraven back at the witch’s pond had been the one to orchestrate it all, but often, when Eres finds her mind wandering to those dark times, she wonders if that summoner had been real at all, if the Hagraven had really been the culprit. Perhaps even then, it had been merely Altano pulling the puppet strings from behind the curtain.

How long had Altano been corrupted? Had it happened when he’d touched the Mace, the same one that had corrupted that woman she’d fought at the altar? Had it been sometime before then? Had Altano been corrupted from the very beginning? He’d certainly always made her uneasy.

But Eres has tried not to think of him, not to send herself spiraling into what-ifs and could-have-beens. It’s safer to focus on the present, on the things she can change. On what she can control. 

The Bee and Barb is as worn down and dilapidated as much of the rest of Riften, perhaps as crippled by debts as any other business might be in the City of Thieves. Haelga’s Bunkhouse, while a much fancier inn, is not an option for Eres, being that she is not a Nord. She’s not even sure it’s actually an _inn_ , and not something else merely posing as one.

She’s thankful, at least, that though a Daedra had been summoned within this inn, she had not been the one to kill it. At least within those walls, she can pretend that Altano and his machinations are a distant memory. It’s just an inn. Just a room. Just a bed. Just a grouchy old Argonian innkeeper, and a tavern full of rowdy patrons downstairs.

Eres sleeps fitfully all the same, her dreams rankled by both memories of Altano and his betrayal, and her anxiety for the future that Windhelm might hold within its dungeons.

It seems so long ago now that she had been called on by Jorleif. Her discovery of the maiden statue, and its connections to vampires—and Jacob’s past, where he himself had once been corrupted by Molag Bal.

Eres is not foolish enough to believe that it’s all a coincidence. There must have been a reason why the disappearances had started up again, twenty years after the first incident—and only mere months following Altano’s betrayal. And her first encounter with Molag Bal.

How long had it been since then? When Eres thinks of it, it feels like years. Decades, even. It feels like a lifetime ago that she decided to find the Dawnguard. That she found Serana.

What might have happened in Windhelm while she was gone? Had Jorleif listened to her, and sealed off the rooms adjacent to that dungeon as she’d asked? Had he ignored her warnings, and sent more guards and prisoners to their deaths? Could the statue have broken open, spilling vampires into the palace who might slaughter all within their wake?

She’d have heard of it, she’s sure. But in the night hours, when Eres is left with nothing but her own thoughts, they spin and spin until she’s not sure how much of it is simply anticipation, and how much is paranoia.

Plagued by her thoughts, plagued further by her dreams and an uneasy night’s sleep, Eres is not even upset when the innkeeper barges into her room to wake her. The Argonian woman hisses fiercely at her about some cat or another that had, apparently, rambled on end about someone matching Eres’ description, caused a ruckus with the guards, and had to be dragged out in the night. Keerava adds a full twenty septims to her room’s price for the trouble.

Being that it is Riften, and this kind of swindling is almost customary, Eres doesn’t even bother summoning up the energy to argue it. She digs groggily in her coinpurse for the extra coins, and Keerava snatches them greedily, stalks right back out of the room, and slams the door behind her.

Eres can’t remember the last time she got a full, restful night’s sleep. Had it been before she’d become a Vigilant? Or even further, back when she was in Cyrodiil and didn’t have to worry so often for looking over her shoulder? How long could a person go, running on near-empty?

Eres dresses, eats jerky from her pack instead of trusting whatever food Keerava may have made, and she makes to leave.

She is nearly to the gates when she turns back.

Keerava had said it had been someone describing _her_ that had caused all that commotion—but who? Certainly, no one from Fellburg. And all the Dawnguard had gone ahead to the fort ahead of her, long before she’d reached Riften. It wouldn’t have been Serana—she wasn’t the type. Hell, Serana would have been more likely to just sit in the room and wait until Eres woke up. Besides that, right now, Serana was probably with her mother in the castle, likely having just returned from the Soul Cairn, figuring out what they might do next, where they might go. Serana wouldn’t have come to find her so soon, and certainly not with that kind of display, being what she is. Being who she is.

A Vigilant, perhaps? Those from the Beacon, or even the Temple, would know her by description, if not in name. Vigilants could also be quite… _disruptive_ when they chose to be.

Eres sighs. The last thing she wants to do is babysit some Vigilant hopped up on his zealotry, but she _is_ still the Keeper. If it’s a Vigilant sitting in the Riften jail, waiting for her, he’s technically her responsibility. Though she’d certainly rather foist them off on Sten, she is closer.

With a quiet groan, Eres turns away from the gates, and makes her way back down the street towards the Mistveil Keep. She’s never been inside the Keep, never had any reason to be, but she knows that jails in Skyrim are always attached to them, or at least very close by. It doesn’t take her long at all to find it.

She’s not even surprised when the guard at the door refuses to let her in without a bit of sweet talk—through the form of coin, of course. It wouldn’t be Riften if the guards couldn’t be bought. She supposed she should count herself lucky they care more about riches than anything else they might try to weasel out of her.

“The hell are you doing down here, little elf?” One of the guards say as she descends into the dungeon proper. His upper lip is scarred, curled into a permanent sneer. Even without it, Eres can practically _smell_ the Stormcloak on him. Sense how much he hates her just for having the audacity to not be a Nord in his presence.

“Looking for someone,” she told him plainly, straightening her shoulders. Even if she stood on her tip-toes, she wouldn’t be taller than him, but she’s well practiced at making herself seem larger than she is, more important than she is. His beady little eyes drop to her robes, to the horn at her belt, and his sneer pulls into something resembling a puzzled frown. It’s hard to tell, with his lip frozen into that half-snarl the way it is. “Or, I’ve been told someone was brought here because they were looking for me.”

“Oh,” the guard makes a face. “You mean that bloody cat on the first floor.” He crosses his arms over his chest, looking down at her. “Go on, then. Take him with you when you go.”

She raises a brow at him. “Take him with me?”

“Overnight stay only—he’s been released.” The guard glares over his shoulder, as if the cat might be standing just behind him. “Only the bastard refuses to leave, now. Says he’s waiting for his _execution_. Get him out of here and I’ll pretend you didn’t do anything wrong.”

She stares at him, incredulous despite herself. “I _haven’t_ done anything wrong.”

His eyes glint when he raises his brows back at her. “I’m sure you’ve done something,” he says flatly, voice unaffected by the bold-face lie they both know he’s telling. He’s well practiced. “Something small, maybe. That Grelka’s always complaining about you elves—what’d you steal from her this time, huh?”

Eres’ feels heat rise beneath her skin, but she tamps it down, swallowing her indignancy, her anger. She knows what battles she can win, and which she can’t. “And if I don’t manage to make him leave?”

“Then you pay a fine.” He says bluntly. “Or you stay the night.” His eyes narrow. “Your choice, elf.”

Eres sets her jaw—she refuses to let him see her angry. “Fine. Where is he?”

“Inside to the left. Purple fur.” _Purple_? That was new. “And hurry up about it.”

She narrowly avoids openly glaring at him as she passes. She _hates_ Riften. Not only were all the guards corrupt, but they were Rebels, Stormcloak sympathizers. Racists. And if she tried to do anything against them? She could kiss her freedom goodbye. They could make up a list of charges a mile long and no one would even bother to check their legitimacy. The corruption in Riften was just _that_ bad.

Pushing down her irritation, Eres moves inside, down the long hall into the room housing the prisoners—a wide, two-floor room shaped like a large rectangle, with an opening in the middle to see below. The three walls extending from the hallway were made up only of jailcells, one next to the other next to the other. The only break in them at all was a single hall that, she supposed, would be the stairwell to reach the bottom floor underneath, where yet more jail cells awaited.

Luckily, she did not have to go far. In fact, he noticed _her_ before she noticed him.

“Come to kill me at last have you?” comes the voice of a Khajiit, pleasantly accented, just to her left. She turns her head to look, finding the Khajiit standing at the bars of his cell, paws wrapped around them, looking out at her with bright, fevered golden-amber eyes. His fur, as the guard had said, was indeed a bright, deep purple, with only a few white markings upon his forehead, and several long, deep scars across his snout as if he had been swiped by a cat himself.

His armor is—shoddy, to say the least of it. What he wore may have resembled leather, at some point, perhaps even scale, but it had been tarnished and worn down so thoroughly that it was little more than tatters, hanging off his body.

Strangely, the door to his cell is wide open, even as he stares at her from across the bars he has, apparently, thrown himself behind. He even still wears a bow at his back, of a quality Eres can see even from where she stands—ebony, she thinks, and of a fine make, too. Even a native Bosmer might like to get a hand on a bow like that one. The guards must not have bothered to strip him of his belongings, weapons or no. And they were likely too dumb to realize how much that bow could sell for.

The bow is in perfect condition, its wood glossy and healthy, polished and shined to almost gleaming. It seems almost as though the cat had traded caring for his clothes into caring for his bow alone.

She steps closer to him, eyeing him, trying to place him, but she comes up blank. She has never met this cat before. Never so much as seen him. She would remember a Khajiit with such a unique color—most of them in Skyrim were rather neutral greys and browns, the occasional white. She’d never seen _purple_ , not even in Cyrodiil. Were Khajiits’ colors really so ranged, or had this one merely dyed its fur to stand out? Was that even possible?

“Thank the gods,” he says as she approaches, looking genuinely grateful for her appearance. “I can bear the guilt no longer.”

Eres feels a bit silly, talking to him on the other side of the bars when the door is wide open, so she walks into the cell, instead, looks around the room. It’s—not terrible, for a cell. It has a bed, and even a desk. Riften must treat some of their criminals rather well. She supposed they must, given that they were probably in the pockets of half of them.

“Guilt?” She asks him.

“I know I must die,” he says plainly, turning to face her. His eyes, while bright with his intent, are also steady—calm. Focused. “Beware, though. My newfound honor demands that I defend myself.” Even as he says the words, he sounds regretful, as though he can’t help such a thing.

“Do you know me?” She asks him, hoping to derail him—she has no idea what he’s talking about, but maybe if she can get him talking about something else, she might figure out what’s going on here.

The cat’s face contorts, his snout wrinkling with sudden irritation. “I am no mood for jokes. Strike me down! Take your revenge!” He spreads his arms wide, as if to incite her to take the first blow without retaliation.

She stares back at him, unmoved. “Who are you? Where do you know me from?”

“You mean you don’t remember?” The cat sounds genuinely baffled, staring at her with widened eyes. Then, just as quickly, his eyes fill with regret once more. “That is my fault also, I think. I am your so-called friend Inigo,” he says, like that name should mean something to her. She’s never heard it before in her life. “I was the one who killed you. Or tried to, anyway. Kill me, I deserve it!”

She raises a brow at him, crossing her arms. “For someone who says he killed me, you didn’t do a very good job, did you? I’m clearly alive. And I don’t remember any of this—you and I have never met.”

“No, no,” he insists. “After I shot you, I knew I had made a mistake. I tried to turn myself in, but your body—was gone,” he frowns. “The guards did not believe me.”

 _Well, of course they wouldn’t,_ Eres thinks. She isn’t going to say it to his face, but he sounds insane.

“They said I was wasting their time. I had to pay them to put me in this cell.” That, Eres is not surprised by. She wonders if he’d even caused the commotion in the inn just to have a reason to be thrown in here. “It is where I belong,” he says sadly. “I needed to repent. I _need_ to repent.”

“You said you thought I was dead—why were you here waiting for me, then?”

Is it silly of her, to expect logic from a man clearly out of his mind?

“I heard tales of a remarkable adventurer, both brave and resourceful, matching your description. I knew it was you! It had to be! I knew you would be coming for me so I waited. Are you going to kill me now, or not?”

Oddly, he seems to be looking forward to it.

“Kill you for what? I still don’t even know what happened.” Or what _he_ thought had happened, anyways. Eres is certain this Inigo has her mistaken for someone else entirely. Perhaps this person he had supposedly killed had never existed in the first place.

Inigo sighs. “I see that I must relive it again. Your memory is not what it was, I think—perhaps that is my fault, also. We met on a job.”

“What kind of job?”

“The killing kind.” Now she knows he’s mistaken. “We were hired by a lord called Dupan to kill his brothers. With them gone, Dupan would inherit a great fortune, and promised us much gold in return. Do you truly remember none of this?”

“Not even a little.”

He nods, frowning, and continues. “Before we left, Dupan told me that if only one of us returned from our mission, that one would get the other’s reward, also. I was hooked on skooma at the time, and I had a bit of a debt problem, so…”

Eres sighs. Debts. Of course it would be. Debts could make a man do terrible things. And that wasn’t even mentioning the drugs.

“So that was why you supposedly tried to kill me, then. For my half of the reward.”

“I tried,” Inigo admits. “That is what matters. It was not an easy choice. We only knew each other for a short time, but I had grown to like and respect you. We got on well and fought bravely side by side—and I threw it all away. For gold and skooma,” he says, looking disgusted with himself. “I think you and I could have been good friends, in another life.”

“Did you get the reward, at least?” She asks him, curious—both to know the full story, and to know just how deep his insanity went. How much of it was true? How much of it was merely his own mind, playing tricks on him?

“No. Dupan was murdered by his sister before I made it back to his keep. Our deal died with him.”

 _That’s a lot of murder for one family,_ Eres thinks. Not for the first time, she is glad that her father had never been the sort of noble to be involved in such disputes. They’d never had enough money or status for something like that, though he’d certainly liked to pretend at it. Perhaps if her father had gotten what he wanted and their family had risen in the ranks of nobility in the Empire, her own family would have met a similar end. Torn apart by petty rivalries and greedy, heartless ambition.

She’s grateful that she doesn’t have to worry for that. Yosef and Johanna would never be the type to turn against her. They were loyal to a fault.

“Money is an evil like no other, my friend,” Inigo finishes. “It is only just that I die at your hand—after what I have done to you.”

She gives him a queer look, looking into his eyes. They seem clear, if a bit over-bright, a bit manic. He certainly seems convinced in his own story, at least. But his pupils seem reactive enough—every time a guard walked past the torch sconces outside and bathed the cell in darkness, she saw them dilate to draw in more light. When the guard passed, they retracted, thinning to mere slits.

Eres is no physician, but she knows enough—enough that she knows what a skooma addict looks like, and more to that end, she knows what someone looks like when high.

Inigo might be insane, a little lost. But he was not high.

“Are you still hooked on skooma?”

“No!” He almost shouts it, he’s so incensed by the suggestion. “I am _done_ with that stuff. I want to die with my senses intact.” Again, he spreads his arms wide, baring his chest to her in all his tattered, filthy armor. “Kill me now. I am ready.”

And then, fool that he is, Inigo closes his eyes, and waits.

As if she’s just going to run him through, just like that.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

Inigo blinks his eyes open, looks back down at her. “But— _why_?” He stares at her, flummoxed. “You _must_. It is justice—”

“Justice for a crime you didn’t commit.” His eyes narrow—Khajiit don’t have eyebrows like humans do, not really, but she can imagine him creasing his brow all the same. “Or, a crime you attempted, but ultimately failed at.”

“It is still attempted murder,” Inigo reminds her helpfully. “It is punishable by death. Go on,” he tells her. “It is justice. It is only right that I—”

“You didn’t kill me,” she tells him. “And I don’t even remember you. I’m not sure we’ve ever met before, actually,” she says, not unkindly—she knows that _he_ believes it, even if it isn’t true. “Maybe I’ve just forgotten. I don’t know,” she shrugs. “Whatever the case, I have no need for vengeance. Or justice. You’re free to go.”

“But…” Inigo looks at her, and she’s never seen a person look so completely and utterly _lost_ before in her life. “But I am… I am meant to die by your hand, I…”

“And I’m saying, I don’t want to kill you. Consider yourself forgiven.”

“You cannot just forgive me so easily, I tried to kill you!”

“I’m a Vigilant,” she tells him plainly, pointing at her robes. “The realm of forgiveness is kind of my territory. Consider it Stendarr’s will, if you must,” and she issues a quick apology in her head to Stendarr, for speaking as if she knows what he wants. She hopes Stendarr will understand why.

“Stendarr,” Inigo hisses. “He is the god of justice, so you—”

“He is also the God of Mercy,” she says gently, and places a hand upon his shoulder. His whole being trembles – whether from her touch or general nerves, she’s unsure. “And the God of Forgiveness. As a Vigilant, I serve him, and I must adhere to his tenets. Would you ask that I turn my back on his teachings?”

Inigo’s face contorts, his whiskers twitching as his snout wrinkles up. For a moment, he seems to be considering it, if reluctantly, but then he shakes his head vehemently.

“No,” he insists again. “I cannot be allowed to get away with such a thing. I must see that I face the justice I am deserved. My life belongs to you. If you will not execute me, then…” He eyes her searchingly. “Then I must serve you in another way, yes? I can repay you.”

“I don’t need a servant,” she starts, but she can already tell by the look in his eyes that he’s made up his mind.

“You are a great adventurer,” Inigo says quickly, his words coming out in a rush of accented syllables, so much so that Eres has to slow down what he says in her head just to understand him. “You fight many battles, I am sure—and Daedra, too, because you are a Vigilant, yes? Then I must fight beside you, lay down my life to protect you—I can repay my debt with my _blood_. And my bow.”

He bows, with a flourish. His tail whips out behind him. When he stands up again, he is grinning down at her. “I am at your command. Where do we go next, Master?”

She grimaces. “First, don’t call me that. My name is Eres.”

His brow—or what of it he has as a Khajiit—wrinkles. “Eres? I do not remember this being your name.” He frowns.

“I’ve never had a different one.” Eres looks at him, wonders if maybe he’ll make the connection—that she is not, after all, the person he had supposedly wronged.

“It is no matter. A name is just a name. It is your very soul I owe a debt to, no matter what your name is.” Eres presses her hand to her face, holding back a groan. “I will follow you to the ends of the earth,” Inigo vows, smiling pleasantly again. “Until my debt is repaid.”

“And when will that be, exactly?”

He shrugs. “I do not know. I suppose I will know when the time comes.”

Right—like he knew she was the one he’d tried to kill, she supposes. “What if I say we’re even now?” She asks. “I have work to do for the Vigilants—very dangerous work, and—”

“That is all the more reason for Inigo to come with you.” Inigo is as resolute as they come. “Inigo can protect you. You need protection.”

“I can protect myself, thank you.”

“Two bows is better than one,” Inigo says wisely. “I am very good with my bow.”

Eres looks at him, looks at the firm, solemn expression on his face, the determination in his eyes. She knows that she’s not going to convince him otherwise.

“You’re going to follow me whether I like it or not, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely.” Inigo says, and grins proudly at her.

With a sigh, Eres turns. “Come on, then, I guess.”

At the very least, she can get him out of the jail. She doesn’t have to keep him around forever. Once he’s out of the jail, the guard will be out of her hair as well, and then, maybe she can convince him to go home. Wherever his home might be. Or she could try convincing him to go to Fellburg instead, if he was really so insistent on serving her in some capacity. Fellburg would be much safer than where she plans to go.

The guard, when she leads Inigo out, makes a face like he’d hoped she wouldn’t be able to convince him. She’s certain he’d been betting on getting a nice bribe from her.

If Inigo hisses at him as they pass, Eres says nothing of it. She pretends she heard nothing of it, and they climb the stairs out of the dungeons without further incident.

“First things first,” she says to Inigo, when they’re out in daylight again, “we have to get you some armor.”

“Ah,” Inigo looks down at himself. “Yes. I did not care for my clothes very well after I killed you.”

She almost corrects him. Almost. Then she remembers he’s not going to believe whatever she says, anyway, and decides she’s better off saving her breath. 

“Yes, well,” she considers Grelka’s armor shop, but she’s never liked that woman’s attitude. “Where I’m going, there will be vampires. So you need a bit more than scraps if you’re going to live.”

“ _Vampires_?” Inigo looks a bit awed. “You are even braver and stronger than I remembered.”

She doesn’t dignify that with an answer, but draws him across the market to instead find the blacksmith—she’s not sure of his name, but he’s not as irritating as Grelka.

The two of them do get some strange looks, which is not wholly out of the ordinary for Eres herself, and even less so for a Bosmer Vigilant _and_ a cat dressed in such tatters. The blacksmith manages to produce some armor that fits Inigo, if a bit loosely, and after an hour, manages to adjust it to fit him well enough that it’s not dangerous for him to wear it.

When it’s all done, Eres is glad to see him properly dressed. He’d been a pitiful sight before. Now he looked almost normal. He might have even passed for normal, if it wasn’t his muttering to himself—or “Mr. Dragonfly”, imprisoned at his waist. He carried a little jar with him, tied to his waist with a piece of twine, in which a singular dragonfly fluttered anxiously about as he walked. Armor or not, Inigo is an unusual sight.

“Thank you,” he says, when they leave the blacksmith. His level of gratitude seems far too deep for what little she’s done. “I am sure that was expensive.”

She shrugs, acting as though it hadn’t been, but armor has always been expensive, and to have it tailored on top of that… She’s certainly not been beggared by it, but her purse is significantly lighter than it had been.

“Now I have yet another debt I must repay.”

Anyone else might have been put out by that. Inigo almost makes it sound like a good thing, like he’s happy to owe her more than he already feels that he does.

It must be his own form of penance, Eres figures, saddling himself down with “debts” to make up for the crimes he thought he had committed. She isn’t sure how she feels about it.

“Are you _sure_ you want to come with me?” She asks him, before they reach the carriage driver she plans to pay for the trip to Windhelm. “I don’t think you understand how dangerous it might be.”

She can hardly tell him about Molag Bal—that might have swayed him, perhaps, but she would only sound as insane as he seems to be.

“All the more reason for Inigo to join you,” Inigo says, and nods to himself. He is as settled and calm as they come. His eyes even look a bit less wild, a bit less feverish. Like just the knowledge that he is repenting in his own way has calmed him. “If it is so dangerous where you are going, why would you want to go alone?”

Eres opens her mouth, only to find that she has no reasonable answer to that.

Why _would_ she want to go alone, knowing what she might encounter?

If it hadn’t been for Serana’s own history with Molag Bal, she certainly wouldn’t have left her behind. She would have been glad to have someone else watching her back, especially someone she trusted so thoroughly. Even now, she aches for the loss of her—more than once on the journey east to Riften with the Dawnguard, Eres had caught herself turning to speak to a partner that was no longer there beside her.

At some point, Eres had become accustomed to having someone at her side. To having Serana at her side. The days when she had been happy to spend her days alone seemed as though they might as well have been lifetimes ago.

When she thinks about it, _really_ thinks about it… The truth is that she _doesn’t_ want to be alone. Not anymore. And certainly not now, when she has no idea what she might be facing. How easily could Molag Bal dig his claws into her, if she ventured into those dungeons by herself? Could she be as easily corrupted as Jacob? How long would she last against him and whatever minions he threw at her, with only herself to rely on?

And yet still, despite how much sense it does make to have someone to watch her back, Eres cannot do so without guilt sinking deep into her gut.

Inigo has no idea what he’s walking into. He has no idea what kind of dangers he might face at her side. She can hardly let him walk into it, blind and unprepared.

He at least deserves to have the knowledge to make a proper choice. Eres feels weight settle upon her shoulders. And within, it feels as though her very soul pulls into two separate directions.

In one, there is the weaker part of her, the part of her that wants nothing more to have a partner again, if only to feel more secure in her own safety. The selfish part of her that wants to drag him alongside her, if only to not be alone in this. To have someone to share this burden with, in a way she cannot share it with Serana.

In the other, there is her strength, her duty, her resolve. Knowing that she cannot ask someone to put themselves in the position where they, too, might become targets of a malicious deity. How could she ask someone to face down a God? How could she ask someone to willingly walk into such horrors beside her?

Eres sighs.

“Inigo,” she starts, and his ears twitch, perking up at the top of his head. He looks at her with interest, attentive and curious. “Before you agree to this—know that I don’t expect you to come. I did say I forgave you,” she reminds him, “and you can leave at any time.”

“I will not.” Inigo states, as firm in his denial as anything. “There is nothing you can say to make Inigo leave your side—you must know this. I must repent for what I have done.”

“Don’t speak too soon.” Eres looks around them, frowns, and tugs at his arm to draw them away from anyone who might overhear.

There, hidden in the shadows beneath Riften’s high stone walls, Eres tells him of Molag Bal—and what she expects she will find when she returns to Windhelm.

“I don’t think it was a coincidence,” she tells him at last, when she has finished telling him of Altano and his betrayal—she had glossed over much in regards to the Dawnguard. Speaking of Serana made her miss the woman fiercely. “That the Maiden Statue became active again so soon after what happened at the altar. I’m sure Molag Bal has a hand in it.”

Inigo stares at her. He blinks, slowly. “You are…” he shakes his head. “You are not joking?”

“I am, unfortunately, very serious.” Eres watches him, watches the way he shifts on his feet, the way his snout scrunches when he thinks. “That’s why I can’t ask you to come with me. You might end up a target as well, if you cross him as I have.”

“You are facing a _god_ ,” Inigo breathes, awed. “And you think you can do this without Inigo’s help?” He gives her a look, a quick glance up and down that she recognizes as something nearing scorn. “And people think _Inigo_ is mad.”

Eres might have argued that, if he hadn’t had a perfectly good point.

“It _does_ sound insane,” she admits. “But it’s the truth. And as long as that Statue is active, people are in danger. It’s my job to close it, and make sure it stays closed for good. Jacob failed the first time around.”

“Jacob,” Inigo says. “That is the one who Molag Bal corrupted, yes?” She nods. “And you are going to the place he was corrupted in.” She nods again. “And Molag Bal said he would take you to his realm if _you_ were corrupted.”

“That’s the gist of it, yes.”

“Then you _must_ have me by your side,” Inigo says, and she only just manages not to gape at him. “Inigo can make sure you are not corrupted. You do not _want_ to go to Coldharbour, do you?”

She blinks. “You know about Coldharbour?”

Inigo gives her a look, a stern, solemn gaze that says more than it doesn’t. “Inigo is smarter than people think.” Eres feels like a bit of an ass, suddenly. “The skooma did not take all of his brains.”

“And yet, you want to come piss off a god with me.”

At that, Inigo shrugs carelessly. “It did not take _all_ of his brains,” he says. “It may have taken some.”

Eres laughs, surprising even herself. Inigo grins back at her. “You’re going to come anyways, aren’t you.”

He actually winks at her. “See,” he says lightly, “you are starting to understand Inigo’s ways. We will be friends soon enough, you will see. Inigo has always thought you would make a good friend.”

Eres isn’t sure how much of _‘let me drag you into a fight with an actual Daedric Prince’_ constitutes friendship, but she supposes she has to take what she can get.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Inigo considers himself very much warned,” Inigo says, very seriously. He even straightens his posture as he says it, standing taller than he does normally. If Inigo had saluted in that moment, Eres would not have been wholly surprised. “But together we will save all of Windhelm.”

“Let’s…start with the dungeons,” Eres says slowly. “The whole of Windhelm might be a bit of an ask.”

“It is stinky there,” Inigo agrees, as if that had been what she referred to.

Eres decides to just go with it. “Yes, it is,” she agrees. Stinks of Rebels, and racists, and _Ulfric_. And vampires, and Molag Bal, and who knew what else. Overall, it was a pretty shitty place.

“We should go somewhere nice after Windhelm,” Inigo says conversationally, leading the way back to the carriage. “Have you ever been to Elswyr?”

Eres, bemused by how Inigo acts as though they’ve known each other for decades rather than a mere half day, allows him to fill the air with his idle chatter as they travel. “I haven’t, actually.”

“It is _much_ better than Skyrim,” Inigo insists, whispering conspiratorially to avoid the ire of the driver. He even leans forward, dramatically cupping his hands—paws?—over his mouth. “Prettier, and not so stinky. Also not so cold. It is warm there—is it ever warm in Skyrim? Inigo misses the sand, sometimes…”

Eres settles back in her seat. She allows him to chatter on, interjecting when she feels it necessary, or when he poses a direct question. Mostly, she is content with the noise of him, with his presence. With the reminder that she is not alone after all, even if she is not with the person she wishes she was.

Even Inigo, in all his strangeness, was better than the company of her own whirling thoughts. She might have driven herself mad if she’d spent all her time thinking the way she often found herself doing when she was alone, now. His noise settles her, somehow, reminds her of normalcy, keeps her thoughts occupied and away from the things that might send her spiraling into doubt and paranoia.

Inigo has already served her, in a way. He just doesn’t know it yet. 


	2. Loose Ends

ACT IV   
CHAPTER II  
LOOSE ENDS

Windhelm is as dreary as Eres remembers it. While they’re at least not in the dead of winter, Windhelm is never warm, and never _not_ snowy.

They arrive sometime in the middle of the night, well after the sun has set. The night is pitch around them with the new moon dark in the sky above, the world lit only with the scant torches and lanterns to be found along the winding streets of a sleeping city.

They pass only guards and drunkards on their way into the palace. Though Eres looks, she finds nothing that might suggest that whatever lurked in the Windhelm dungeons had spilled out into the city proper. The ground is still the ruddy brown and grey of half-melted slush, the streets still dank and as empty as any city after the sun sets, and the air is quiet save for the steady patter of freezing rain upon the ground and rooftops around them.

Eres hates it all, and longs for the warmth of Fellburg in spring. Or even Cyrodiil in the summer, the hot air cooled by the Lake Rumore surrounding the Imperial City, giving each day a pleasant breeze. For a moment, she even misses the old estate and its balcony overlooking the lower parts of the city, how she’d sit with her legs dangling through the railings, peering down at the people as they passed beneath her, wind in her hair and tugging at her clothes. Just for a moment.

Then she remembers her father, and the memory sours in her mind.

She can’t say she’d _gladly_ take Windhelm over her father, but she would rather be even here in this foul city than back under her father’s graces.

Inigo is unusually quiet beside her when they enter the Palace. He seems somewhat cowed by its magnificence, his ears lying flat against the top of his skull, his expression pulled tight and his movements stiff and closed-in like he wants to make himself smaller.

That changes in an instant when Jorleif spots her from the other side of the room, all the way near the throne. She’s almost impressed by how quickly he’d noticed her.

Or she might have been, if his first reaction wasn’t to thrust his finger out to point accusingly at her and shout, _“YOU!”_ in such a booming, scornful tone that every guard in the hall immediately snaps to look at them.

Several guards near her step closer, hands on the hilts of their swords.

Eres stills, and when she sees Inigo bristle out of the corner of her eye, his tail raising defensively, she holds up a hand to calm him. He settles—but only _just_ , still scowling at the man who approaches them at a walk so brisk it may as well have been a jog.

“ _You_ ,” Jorleif hisses, his voice much lower now that he’s reached her. He glances at the guards, and hurriedly shoos them away with a grimace.

The guards fall back, but continue to glare at Eres from their posts, waiting for her to misstep.

“Me,” she agrees, and perhaps that hadn’t been the best response.

Jorleif’s face contorts into an ugly grimace. “ _You_ ,” he repeats, “didn’t say you would be gone for _months!_ It’s been _months_ , Vigilant! Months that we haven’t been able to use our own dungeons! We’ve had to clear out room in the barracks just to house our prisoners!”

She ignores that complaint entirely. “So you took my advice, then?” She asks. “You sealed off the dungeon?”

Jorleif sneers at her. “Of course I did. I’m not _stupid_.” Somehow, she doubts that, but she’s not going to say it out loud. “It has been sealed off since you left. We moved everyone out while we waited. _Waited!_ ” He exclaims, throwing his hands up. “For months! If we’d known you’d take this long, we would have just handled it ourselves!”

“That would have been a mistake,” Eres tells him plainly. “There are vampires down there.”

He frowns, then, his ire turning to uncertainty. “How do you know that?”

“That is what happened last time—you remember, don’t you? The last time you called the Vigilants here.”

“It was so long ago,” Jorleif says haltingly. “It was vampires before, but—how do you know it’s vampires, now?”

“Can you think of another reason why a bunch of bodies would be missing, if all they’d wanted to do was kill them?” Eres asks him. “They took them to feed.” A pause. “Possibly to turn them. I won’t know until I get down there.”

“If you knew it was vampires all this time, why did you leave us to our own devices? What if they had escaped? What if the statue had opened and—”

“The statue is sealed shut,” Eres sighs, and digs in her pocket for the key she had found with Jacob’s journal. “This is the only key for it. Jacob sealed it the last time around. The statue won’t open without it.”

“Oh.” Jorleif blinks dumbly. “And—and you’re going to open it now…?”

“That is the plan, yes.”

Still, Jorleif’s lips pull into a frown. “You took _three months_ to find a _key_?”

“I took _three months_ to keep the vampires from turning off the sun,” she says dryly. Beside her, Inigo nods fervently. Jorleif only stares at her. “Or did you not hear about the vampire attacks happening all over Skyrim a few months ago?”

“I…did,” Jorleif admits, “but, I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“Keeping us all from dying took priority over solving your dungeon problem.” Eres tries not to make him feel like an idiot, she does, but he just makes it so _difficult_. “Now that that matter is solved, I can get back to work here. I told you it might take some time.”

“You said _time_ , not—”

“Months, yes,” she drawls, “I know. I’m sorry that preventing the apocalypse took longer than expected. Now if you don’t mind?”

Jorleif at least has the decency to look a bit sheepish at that, despite all his indignation at being snubbed by her. He nods, quieting at last, and beckons her to follow him.

Again, he leads her to the doors that had once led to a barracks for the Windhelm guards, and the dungeons beneath it.

“Excuse me,” he tells her shortly, when they stop in front of it. It doesn’t look any different than it had before, save for a strange sheen on its surface. “I must get the court wizard to unlock it.”

She raises her brows, but he turns before she can ask. Eres looks at the door again, closer now that she knows its magicked—but beyond the faint sheen glossing its surface, she can see little evidence that it has any sort of spell upon it. Whoever Ulfric’s court wizard was, they were _good_. Better than she could hope to be, at least. She wonders if even Mirabelle would have been able to do something like this.

She ends up waiting so long that she leans against the wall next to the door, tired of standing. Inigo takes out his jar, murmuring softly to the dragonfly within it. Eres smiles a bit when she sees it, and the tiny branch now nestled inside it, still fresh enough that the leaves have not yet started to wilt. Inigo had stopped the carriage driver just to grab a branch from that tree, a small one by the side of the road with little dark red maple-like leaves. When she’d asked him, he’d said it reminded him of home—and that Mr. Dragonfly would like it.

Mr. Dragonfly _did_ seem less anxious, if only slightly. Mostly, she found it a bit endearing that Inigo was so childlike in his reverence of the thing. She couldn’t imagine it would live very long though, no matter how much he planned to spoil it in that tiny jar.

At long last, after what felt like nearly an hour, Jorleif approaches them again, flanked by a much older man in the black robes of a mage. With his hood drawn over his head and his grizzled beard, the man looks the very definition of unsavory.

“You are the Vigilant, then,” the old mage says when he approaches, in a voice that speaks of just how little he seems to expect of her. His eyes seem to linger just to the side of her head—at the points of her ears.

Her eyes narrow. “I am. Are you going to open the door for me now?”

He eyes her a moment longer, his expression not _quite_ open disdain, but approaching it. Then he turns to the door, presses his hand upon it, and murmurs a soft incantation under his breath.

Spreading outward from his hand, the sheen on its surface fades away in mere seconds.

“There,” he says, and steps back. “The way is open to you now.” He gives her a shrewd look, his lips pressing tightly together. “If you die in there, you’d best not expect us to come looking for you.”

She favors him with a dry look. “Wasn’t counting on it. You shouldn’t, either.”

He frowns at her, like he’s not quite certain what she means by it. She tugs Inigo inside and shuts the door behind her before he can figure out what she meant. She’s certain they would be all too happy for her to die and have a nice Nord man take her place as Keeper. One they could more easily control.

Well, if things went her way, they wouldn’t have long to wait for that, anyways. The sooner she can take off this mantle, the better.

“It’s down here,” Eres says to Inigo, beckoning him to follow. She pulls Dawnbreaker from her back, feeling it hum shortly against her fingers as if in acknowledgement of her grip. In a way, it almost feels like a hello. She hears Inigo’s rustling behind her, and knows that he has drawn his bow from his back, following her cues as wordlessly and seamlessly as Serana once had.

They hadn’t seen combat on the way here, having taken carriage the entire way. Eres does feel a bit uneasy knowing the first time they will fight together may be against vampires down below. ‘Sink or swim’ has never been her favorite policy.

Eres hesitates at the Maiden Statue, as she knew she would. It looms over her, its hands clasped almost demurely in front of its chest, the expression locked in a permanent state of remorse—or anguish. Perhaps even pain. Not for the first time, Eres wonders who it’s meant to signify.

Given the vampires, she would assume Lamae Beolfag, but—did they worship her? She had heard nothing of the sort from Serana, but the Maiden Statue seems…almost reverent in its sculpting. As if sculpted by the hands of the devoted.

“That is… _creepy_ ,” Inigo says, effectively breaking the tension that had settled around them. “Eugh.” He shudders dramatically beside her. “Who would put such a thing here?”

“Vampires,” she says simply.

“Vampires are creepy.”

“They can be, yes.” Eres finally steps forward, brushing her fingers against the edges of the statue, searching for a slot that might fit the key she’d found in Jacob’s journal. Most vampires were creepy. Serana could be, at times, when she was trying to be. But Eres had never been that unsettled by her. “Aha.”

Finally, she finds it—oddly enough, beneath the Maiden’s chin, at an odd and unusual angle. It takes a bit of maneuvering to fit the key into its hole from beneath, where she can’t see what she’s doing. But after a bit of fumbling, it finally sinks home, and she gives it a firm twist.

_Click_.

She feels the Maiden’s neck pressing against her hand as the statue swings open, not unlike a doorway.

“ _Oh!”_ Inigo exclaims, jumping back—and Eres jumps back, too, expecting something to come leaping out at them.

But what comes out does not leap at all. It merely sags against the back of the wall the statue had been mounted upon, and then tips over with a skin-prickling, hollow _thump_. Something clatters, and bumps into the toe of her boot.

Eres steps back, looking down.

A little horn stares up at her, weathered by age and the elements, but all too familiar. She has one of her own, dangling from the belt at her waist. As does every Vigilant of significant rank.

And the robes, though old and tattered, could also not be mistaken.

The corpse is that of a Vigilant. One that had died leaning against the sealed back of the Maiden Statue, mere inches away from freedom. The horn had fallen from its half-skeletal hands when it had tipped over onto the ground. Whoever this Vigilant had been—he had died clutching the horn in his hands.

“That is a body.”

“I can see that, yes.” Eres doesn’t want to, really, but she crouches near it all the same. From the passage, she smells stale air and sewage, something rotten and foul. The air wafts out from the opening lazily, mixing with that of the dungeon around them. It’s probably safer that they wait for some of the decades-old air to clear out, anyways.

The body appears to be male, for what Eres can tell of it. Its height—far taller than herself, taller even than Inigo—suggests a Nord. If it hadn’t been a Vigilant, she may have guessed even an elf—one of the Altmer, maybe, or a Dunmer. But even she is unusual for the Vigilants of Skyrim, and she doubts there had been more diversity among them twenty years ago than there is now.

The body, sealed behind the statue where the air is nearly as cold as that outside, had not quite frozen, not quite decomposed. Instead, the skin had pulled taut around the bones, until it seemed almost that all tissue had dissolved beneath it, leaving the skin to shrink and tighten around the skeleton alone.

The eyes were gone, but the corpse’s jaw was shut tight, and Eres isn’t going to try to pry it open no matter how curious she is.

She imagines the eyes must have gone first—the softest tissue in the body that’s easily accessible, they would have dried and rotten away more quickly than the rest. Or, perhaps, they had been picked and eaten by scavengers roaming the tunnels—skeevers, or the smaller, more typical mice.

But then, Eres wonders, why hadn’t the rats picked the skeleton clean? Had there been something keeping them from eating it?

It’s not something she wants to think about, but she must. Skeevers will eat damn near anything, rotten or no. Body or no. Back in the day, the Empire had used starving skeevers as torture for the worst of the worst of their criminals and prisoners, sealing the unfortunate victims in tiny little cages with nowhere they could hide or climb to—and then setting the skeevers loose on them. The skeevers would eat them alive, and keep eating them until the bones were picked clean.

That had only been centuries ago, and it had been a dark stain on the Empire’s sordid past. Her tutors had insisted she remembered that _that’s how things were back then_ and _we’re better than that now_ , but Eres had never been certain they didn’t still use those methods—only now, where no one could see them do it.

Remembering that from her history lessons, Eres finds herself dreading the answer. What _wouldn’t_ Skeevers eat? Perhaps a vampire, she imagines. Maybe there was something about the undead that didn’t appeal to them.

Serana had said that her kind weren’t like your every day vampires, that _she_ could live without feeding, even if it did eventually cause her to sleep the centuries and millennia away.

But what would happen to a man so resolute in his conviction that he refused to feed, as a freshly turned vampire? Would he simply rot away as he starved? _Could_ a freshly turned vampire have such control over himself so as to intentionally starve himself to death?

Or had it been Stendarr’s horn, clutched to the man’s chest, that had weakened him just enough that even his feral instincts hadn’t been able to drive him to feed upon his comrades?

Eres stands, and Inigo looks at her. Wordlessly, she gestures for him to help her move the body.

Together, they carefully extract him from the tunnel, and lie him down in the room beyond. Eres places the Horn back within his hands and crosses them over his chest.

That man had been devoted to Stendarr to his last breath. He deserved a proper burial, when she had the time to do it. She imagines he won’t be the last corpse she finds down there.

She wonders what would be worse—finding the bodies of men like him, who had died so stubbornly? So devoted to their God that they had chosen to die slowly rather than act against Stendarr’s will? The thought alone was heartwrenching. Or perhaps the bodies she would make herself, from feral vampires who might attack her in the tunnels below, having caved in to their basest desires, their lives as Vigilants long since forgotten, abandoned by Jacob to live out a hellish eternity as the very horrors they had once aimed to destroy?

When she looks down at the body as she stands, feeling remorse and pity for a man she’d never known, Inigo pats her softly on the shoulder.

“We will come back for him,” he promises. “And the others.”

Eres nods. They can come back for him later, give him the burial he deserves. Hopefully, his soul might find rest, by the time they’re through.

But for now, they have other things to worry about.

Eres tightens her grip upon Dawnbreaker’s hilt, and with a beckoning nod to Inigo, she steps inside the tunnel once hidden behind the Maiden Statue. Inigo follows at her heels.

“Should we close the door?” Inigo asks, hesitating near it. “I do not like the idea of being trapped in here, but…”

But. There was no telling how expansive the tunnels were, and if something managed to get around them, it could easily get out if they just left the door wide open.

Reluctantly, Eres nods at him. Inigo nods back, and, taking a steadying breath, pulls the statue back into its proper place.

There is a hollow _thud_ as it snaps into place, but Eres does not hear the click of a lock engaging, and even when she calls magelight to her hand, she cannot see anything upon the smooth surface of the door that might indicate a keyhole. Frowning, Eres pockets the key.

“It doesn’t look like it can be locked from the inside.” That thought bothers her. If it couldn’t have been sealed from inside, then how had Jacob sealed it? Had he doubled back, and slammed the door shut behind him? Or…No—hadn’t he said it had sealed behind him somehow, or been blocked off? Could there be another exit somewhere?

But if there _is_ another exit, then how had they become trapped? Why couldn’t they all have just used the other exit, like Jacob might have?

Or had it been Molag Bal who had saved Jacob, depositing him back outside the tunnels once he’d agreed to Molag Bal’s terms, accepting the corruption his brethren had fought against?

Eres wishes that she could speak with Jacob, somehow. If she could only _ask him_ what happened down here, she could be so much more prepared.

“That sword of yours is very useful.” Inigo murmurs, as she turns to follow the narrow tunnel downward. The foul smell is stronger, now, something like rot and, she hates to think of it, sewage. Just how many sewers is she going to find herself in?

“It is,” Eres tells Inigo. She raises it, the light of its gem seeming ever brighter in the dark corridors. But even with its too-bright light, she can only see several meters in front of her. She doesn’t like it.

Equally so, she doesn’t like the way it thrums against her palms, vibrating with the presence of vampires somewhere in the darkness. A shield would have done nicely here, she thinks, but she’s never liked carrying them. She might learn to regret it, if a vampire lunges at her from the darkness.

“Perhaps I should go first,” Inigo offers. “I have good night vision.” She glances over her shoulder at him, to see him wincing. “Also, your sword is blinding me.”

“Oh,” she steps aside, allowing him to pass her. He sighs in relief as he does, his form relaxing ahead of her. “Sorry.”

“Much better,” he purrs. “I can see further than your sword can. And,” he reminds her, “I can shoot them before they get close.”

She hopes he’s as good with that bow as he thinks he is. If those vampires close on him while he’s got it drawn, he’s not going to be able to defend himself very well.

Damn it. She should have gotten him a sword.

“Wait,” she calls out, grabbing his arm. From her belt, she removes the silver sword she keeps sheathed at her waist, for when Dawnbreaker is a bit overkill. “Just in case.”

“Again and again,” Inigo says warmly, happily taking it to hook to his own belt, “I find myself owing you a great debt.”

She sighs. “Just don’t die, Inigo.”

“I will very much try not to,” he promises lightly, and pads ahead of her at a light jog. “It stinks down here.”

As he so often does, Inigo makes idle, easygoing comments as they move, seemingly unaffected by the dark, uncertain atmosphere surrounding him. Even the threat of vampires does not seem to dampen his spirits.

Eres had thought he would sober once they encountered one, but she was wrong.

It’s nearly ten minutes of walking down that narrow, dark corridor before they finally encounter life—or unlife, as it were. A feral vampire, one Eres had initially thought dead, crumpled against the wall as it is, raises its head and scrambles to leap at them.

Inigo shoots it almost cheerfully, cheering when his arrow staggers it. He fires two more, the first piercing the vampire’s throat—and the last, dead center to the forehead, managing to pierce right through the soft tissue between eye and nose. The vampire crumples to the ground, rendered lifeless in an instant.

Despite herself, Eres is impressed.

“Yes!” Inigo cheers, turning to grin at her. “A textbook example of skill and grace.” He does his flourish of a bow again, grin stretching near from ear to ear.

Somehow, Inigo makes even this dank, dreary little tunnel seem like a walk in the park.

She chuckles at him, shaking her head, lightened by his good mood. His cheers and taunts chip away at her anxieties, his skill with a bow easing her nerves, his absolute surety of himself calming her where she might have worried for anyone else.

However mad Inigo might have been, he was _good_ , and he knew it.

He doesn’t even cheer just for himself, either. When she lops a vampire’s head from its shoulders—a guard, this time, judging by the outfit—he grins proudly at her. “You are better with that sword than you were!” He exclaims, and he jogs off ahead of her.

So far, Eres finds that the tunnels have been—almost disappointing, in their simplicity.

Perhaps she had made too much of it in her head. She’d spent so much time worrying over it and coming up with worst case scenarios that she’d made it out to be so much worse than it actually was.

Sure, there were vampires. Many of them feral, so mad with hunger that they were little more than fodder for Inigo’s arrows and Meridia’s eager blade. Several had been Vigilants, and of course she felt poorly for their fates, knowing they could not have helped them. More than once they come upon bodies not unlike the first that had toppled out from behind the statue, bodies crumpled into beseeching poses, knees pulled to their chests, horns clutched tightly in their hands. Eres hated killing the former Vigilants, but she hated seeing those corpses even more. Something about them made her heart ache with sympathy. The poor bastards.

“It looks like these stairs go upward,” Inigo points out, as they arrive at a landing. “Should we keep going? Do you think that is all of them?”

Eres wishes it were, but she hardly believes that. Especially not with Dawnbreaker still humming in her hand.

“We keep going,” she says firmly. “We have to make sure we get all of them.”

Inigo bows his head in a short nod, then turns to jog up the stairs. Eres follows at his heels, and together when they reach the top, each of them turn to face opposite directions, back to back. Nothing assaults them—there is only a long hall on either side, extending into the darkness.

“Which…way do we go?” Inigo asks haltingly.

“Both,” she tells him. “We’ll take them one at a time.” She hesitates, but, knowing it to be safest, she digs a small fragment of a soul gem from her pack, and presses it against the stone of the wall near the opening of the stairwell. There, she scrawls a simple rune, a little sideways arrow, <. Beacon. She presses her fingers into the dust upon the stone’s surface, and infuses just the slightest amount of her mana into it.

When she pulls her hand away, she feels the draw of it to her, a near imperceptible tug at the back of her mind. When she closes her eyes to focus, she can see it behind her eyelids, glowing faintly on the wall in front of her.

With this, she and Inigo will be able to find their way back no matter how winding and maze-like the tunnels beyond them were.

“Let’s try this way first.” If Inigo thinks anything of the rune at all, he does not speak of it. He merely nods his understanding, and moves down the tunnel in front of her to lead the way.

The rune remains a constant, almost distracting tickle at the back her mind as they go, but the constancy of it is almost comforting. She is glad that she hasn’t forgotten _everything_ her tutors had taught her, though she is still certain they would be disappointed in what little she _did_ remember.

She remembers the useful ones. That’s what matters.

The first hall they take, as it turns out, leads to several dead ends, and nothing incredibly important. They encounter a few more corpses, though, several of which had died within what appeared to be more jail cells.

“They _keep_ people down here?” Inigo asks, horrified.

“I don’t know.” Eres frowns. Were these the bodies of those who had refused to fall to their vampiric desires, or perhaps those of prisoners who had been left down here to die regardless? They had all been dead so long, there would be no telling the difference. Even their clothes were unrecognizable. “Let’s try the other path, now.”

This time, she leads them back, her mind honing in on the faint glow of the beacon rune in her mind. Within minutes, they are back at the stairwell, and passing it to continue down the other side.

Down the next hall, they find much of the same—deadend hallways, littered corpses of both the bodies of humans, and those of long-dead rats and skeevers. And another line of jail cells, only—

Only these ones are not empty.

Three of them have only dead bodies within them. Two more have guards, their uniforms soiled, but _recent_ —muttering to themselves as they pace their cells, snarling at nothing and cursing under their breaths. When Eres and Inigo enter, the two guards hiss, leaping for the bars of their cells.

The guards’ eyes, bright red with fervor and frenzy, are wild with starvation. Eres isn’t even certain there’s any humanity left in them, watching in morbid fascination as they lunge through the bars, swiping at air like they might manage to grab her if they tried hard enough, no matter how far away from them she was.

Inigo shoots one of them through the bars. Eres runs the other through.

From the last cell comes a voice—all too lucid.

“This is a bad time for you to be here,” says the voice. Eres turns. In the last cell is a Vigilant, eyes the bright red of an unfed vampire, but he sits placidly within his cell, his legs crossed underneath him and hands folded in his laps. He seems entirely sane, not at all feral like the others. “Jericho might come back at any moment. You should leave before he catches you.”

“Jeri—” She barely gets the word out before she hears a shout, and then a loud snarl.

Inigo swears violently beside her, spinning, loosing arrows before he even knows what he’s aiming for. Eres sees the vampire coming just in time to raise Dawnbreaker in front of her. She feels a tug at her mana, and the sword _pulses_.

Light blasts out of the gem in a wide pulse, and the vampire lunging at her stumbles backward, throwing his hands in front of his face. Inigo hisses beside her, arrow after arrow punching into the vampire’s body until he looks closer to a pincushion than a person.

But this vampire is _stronger_. He doesn’t waver. Even in the light of Dawnbreaker, the vampire regains his feet, snarls at them, brandishes both hands in front of him and Eres feels the _crackle_ of energy in the air just seconds before the bolt hits.

Just long enough that she manages to throw up her hand, an instinctive ward bursting from her fingertips to deflect the lightning that snaps out at her. Pain _slams_ into her head like a sledgehammer, her vision doubling and darkening at the edges. She stumbles, swaying, head spinning, and sees silver flash in front of her—

And then, silence. Followed by the thud of a body crumpling into the ground.

Inigo stands above the vampire, silver sword in his right hand, bow still held aloft in his left. When he turns to look at her, it is with worry in his eyes. “Are you okay, my friend?” He asks. “You went white as a ghost!”

“Magic…” She manages, through a lump in her throat that threatens to turn to sick. “Magic like that takes a lot of out of me.” Her stomach lurches. The point of Dawnbreaker _pings_ into the floor, and she winces, knowing she’s blunted it, but she can just barely stand for the swimming in her head. It feels like the ground is spiraling underneath her feet. “Give me a second.”

Eres should be glad she’d managed to ward them. She doesn’t know how well either of them would’ve survived a direct bolt from that close a range. Even if they’d survived, they might not have been able to fight afterward. If she hadn’t managed that ward, they might both be dead now—or worse, _thralls_.

But with the splitting pain in her skull, the nausea, the vertigo—she wishes that she hadn’t. It’s going to take hours before she feels well again.

It takes nearly ten minutes just for her head to stop spinning every time she so much as twitches. Twenty minutes before she can actually move like a somewhat-normal person.

“Are you _sure_ you are okay?” Inigo asks worriedly. “I do not think this reaction is normal.”

According to Mirabelle, it probably isn’t. She should really see about visiting her, and soon. If Mirabelle can find out why magic makes her feel like this, she’d certainly like to know.

When she finally feels as though she’s stable enough to not vomit all over the vampire in his cell, she turns to face him.

“What happened here?” She asks him. “Were you part of Jacob’s group that came down here twenty years ago?”

He looks up at her, his lips pressing tightly together. “Jacob… Has it truly been so long?”

“It has,” she tells him. The man nods quietly. “Can you tell me what happened? What are you doing here in this cell?”

The man looks away, sighs. When he closes his eyes, he almost doesn’t look like a vampire, were it not for the hollowness of his cheeks.

“It was her…” he murmurs quietly. “She was here. The Blood Matron…”

“Blood Matron?” Could he be referring to Lamae? Had her paranoia been _right_ for once?

“We fought her,” he tells her. His eyes drop to his hands, clasped together in his lap. “Or…we _tried_ to fight her. But we were powerless against her. None of our training ever prepared us for…” he shakes his head. “We couldn’t do anything. Those of us who survived, we—we had to drink her blood. We had to become one of them…”

That lined up with what she had expected, in some regards. She knew that they’d been forced to become vampires, but not by who. But, the _Blood Matron_? Could Lamae be down here?

And if Lamae _was_ down here, did that mean Molag Bal was, too?

“Why are you in this cell?”

“Kill me,” he says instead. “Please. I don’t want to become one of them. I want to die while I am still whole.”

He’s already one of them, she wants to tell him, but she knows that he knows that, too. But she also knows that _he_ had likely been the one to lock himself in that cell, as the others had done, to keep himself from acting on his urges. To keep himself clean. To remain faithful to his god, even when his hand had been forced against him.

She pities him, she realizes. If that was her—what would she have done? Would she have just waited for death, as he had?

She doesn’t know, but she steps closer to the cell all the same. From her belt, she takes the Horn of Stendarr—not the one that signifies her as Keeper, but the one she takes with her always as a symbol of his Will, as every Vigilant does. Except for the one in the cell, who no longer carries his.

“Here,” she says to him, and pushes the point of the horn through the cell. She chooses to trust him, in that moment. She knows no one else would. Beside her, Inigo is silent.

The vampire hesitates.

“Pray,” she says to him, and urges him to take it once more. “For your forgiveness. I’m sure Stendarr will hear you.”

The vampire’s mouth twists, his eyes turning pained. He swallows, then nods. Reverently, with trembling hands, he takes the horn from her fingers through the bar, cradles it in his hands even as his skin reddens at the touch of its holy surface. It is not blessed as Dawnbreaker’s, but it is of His domain, all the same.

The vampire cradles the horn to his chest, closing his eyes. His lips move silently in a final prayer. She waits, patient, while Inigo silently moves to pick the lock.

Eres steps back to allow the door to swing open when he is done. The man raises his head, looks at her with eyes that look at least a little bit more at peace. It was perhaps one of the only comforts she could lend him; this pitiful, nameless man who had been caught at the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Down below,” he tells her quietly, “there’s a set of stairs behind a locked door. The Mo—the Blood Matron’s body rests there. Perhaps you can put an end to this for good. Aredhel guards it, but,” his eyes squint a little when he looks at Dawnbreaker, “I am sure you can defeat him.”

She nods at him. “Thank you.”

Eres steps into the cell. She places the point of Dawnbreaker against his neck.

The Vigilant bares it, tilting his head backward as he closes his eyes. “Thank _you_ ,” he whispers fiercely. “Do it quickly. I want to die as a Vigilant…”

“Stendarr…” Eres starts, hollowly at first, and then, more assured. “Stendarr’s Mercy be upon you, Brother. Your devotion will not be forgotten.”

She ends him, there, and tries not to think of how long he had waited for what little salvation she had been able to offer.

At her side, Inigo shifts uncertainly. “Do you…Do you really think Stendarr will forgive him? He is a vampire. _Was_ a vampire.”

“He was,” Eres agrees. “But not by choice. And he remained steadfast to the end.” It’s not like she can ask him, but, “I hope Stendarr is the type of god who would respect that kind of devotion.”

If not, then… Eres raises a hand, closing her fingers around the Amulet of Mara around her neck. If Stendarr would not have mercy on him, then perhaps Mara would. If there was any god who had compassion in spades, it would be the Mother-Goddess.

If anyone deserved forgiveness, it was a man who had spent twenty years in a cage, waiting to be put to death instead of becoming the monster he had spent his life eradicating.

She hadn’t even learned his name.

Swallowing down her dizziness, Eres draws another rune upon the wall of his cell. Vampire or not, this man, too, deserved a proper burial. He had been loyal to the very end.

“Let’s go,” she says to Inigo. “Hopefully this Aredhel will be the last of them.”

“And the Blood Matron,” Inigo adds. “She is the one who turned them.”

Eres presses her lips together, unsettled. Just how powerful would a vampire like Lamae be, if it was truly her? Eres certainly could not defeat Serana, one on one, and Serana wasn’t half as old as Lamae would be by now. And surely, the older the vampire, the stronger they would be, right?

Did she and Inigo even have a chance at putting an end to this, or were they merely walking to their own funerals?

They follow the stairs downward that the Vigilant had indicated, descending into a narrow, dark stairwell that seemed to lead endlessly downward. And beyond that, another pitch-dark hallway with nowhere to go but ever forward.

_“I was too late…”_ she hears a pitiable moan in the distance, somewhere up ahead in the darkness. _“They are all dead… They are all lost…”_

She and Inigo exchange looks. He readies an arrow to draw at a moment’s notice. She resettles Dawnbreaker’s weight in her hand, tightening her grip. This must be Aredhel, then. The last of them—aside from the Blood Matron herself.

_“Now there is only me and her left_ …” She hears, moments before the hall widens into a great room—a room that, for a moment, pulls her up short.

There are _pews_ there, lining each side of a threadbare, worn carpet flung down the middle of the room, and behind it, a sculpture with a familiar visage—it looks like a vampire brute, its face turned towards the sky in anguish, fresh bleed dripping from its eyes and mouth.

And in front of it stands a single Vigilant, skin as pale as snow, eyes as bright red as the blood behind him.

“And the monster before my eyes,” the Vigilant finishes, his lips curling as he sights them. “Monster of Molag Bal!” He points at her— _her_ , bellowing, “you will go no further! Let the souls of my lost friends find peace in your death!”

By the Gods, the man doesn’t even _know_. He thinks _she’s_ the one who’s been corrupted. Just how thoroughly had his mind been twisted by him?

The battle is underwhelming, compared to Jericho—with more space to maneuver, the fighting is easier, especially for Inigo. Significantly less so for her, when she finds that she cannot quickly turn around without feeling a bit dizzy, a bit nauseous. But she pushes through.

The vampire is weak, clearly untrained, and there is no horn at his belt. In his case, Eres thinks, it is not that the horn had been lost, but merely that it had never been there to begin with.

This man must have been an Initiate, dragged beneath the Windhelm Dungeons by his mentor… and left to his fate. Who had his mentor been? The Vigilant who’d died, resting against the sealed statue? The man in the cell?

Or perhaps, Jacob had been his mentor.

“He was not trained very well,” Inigo says, when they manage to down him. Had Eres not been weakened, she’s certain the battle wouldn’t have taken half as long as it had. “Inigo almost feels bad for killing him.” He looks up at Eres. “Almost.”

She sends him a quick smirk, amused by his dark humor despite herself.

“One left, then,” she tells him. He nods, the humor in his expression fading. She reaches for the vials at her belt, and downs several in quick succession. Inigo gives her a concerned look. “It’s just to get through this next battle,” she tells him. Her head already feels a bit more stable. She can feel her heart beginning to pump harder in her chest, adrenaline coursing through her veins. “I don’t like it either.”

“Those can be addicting,” Inigo warns. “I would know.”

“I’m aware.” That was exactly why she used them so rarely. But she couldn’t go into a fight with _the Mother of All Vampires_ without being at her best. Or better-than-best, as it were.

Together, they cross the room to the other end of it, where a door opens into another, much shorter hallway, and then into an empty courtyard filled with nothing but rubble. Briefly, Eres wonders if the vampires had attempted to make some sort of makeshift home down in the tunnels beneath Windhelm—but if they had, they had never gotten very far.

They pass through another empty room, and another with several gargoyles that Eres eyes suspiciously as they pass, but don’t awaken or burst from their pedestals.

At long last, when Eres feels they might just find themselves wandering through empty rooms forever, she opens a door—and sees a great hall extend before her.

In front of her, the hall rises into a long set of stairs leading upward to what appears to be a throne. A throne with a brazier on either side—braziers that are still burning, even now. Even twenty years on. Someone had lit them. Someone had _maintained_ them.

Had it been Aredhel?

Eres walks cautiously forward, Dawnbreaker in hand, approaching the raised platform in the center of the room near the foot of the stairs.

When it comes into view, she stops short.

The body looked _new_.

“Is…that the Blood Matron?” Inigo asks, peering over her shoulder at it. “She is younger than I expected. Prettier, even.” He hums thoughtfully in her ear.

She steps quickly away from him, not quite rude enough to shove him out of her personal space. “I think so.” It’s not like she’s ever seen any portraits of Lamae. She’d been a noble, Eres was sure, but if any portraits had ever existed of her, they were remarkably well hidden. Not even the Vigilants had any record of her appearance.

Eres eyes the body, frowning. It doesn’t so much as twitch under her scrutiny. She peers up at the throne—but there’s nothing there, either.

There is the skeletal body of a Vigilant nearby, still dressed in his robes, dirty and soiled as they are from decomposition. But nothing else within the room calls to her attention.

Just the throne, and Lamae.

“Do we just…kill her?”

Eres waves a hand at him, and Inigo backs away obediently. Dawnbreaker in hand, Eres approaches the coffin the woman’s body rests in. Kicks it. Once, then a second time.

Nothing.

The body doesn’t move.

Something isn’t right here, Eres thinks, and she steps closer, spotting something that glints between Lamae’s fingers, closed over her chest. It almost looks like a knife, but—she’s certain that sheen is an enchantment, and it looks _powerful_. And something in it feels like it’s calling her—but not in the way that Molag Bal would, no, but in the way that Stendarr or Meridia might.

Something about that dagger, held between those cold hands, is a weapon against the corrupt and malevolent, she is sure of it. And if Lamae had been the first, then wouldn’t it be fitting that she would have the power to bring down Molag Bal? Perhaps it would give Eres the advantage she needed to get him to leave her alone.

Eres leans over the corpse, and, very carefully, she closes her thumb and forefinger around the shining blade of that dagger, and slowly pulls it from the woman’s cold, unmoving grip. Her eyes are fixed upon the dagger, her right hand still clutching Meridia’s blessed blade, all too wary for any movement that might come from her.

She had expected movement from _Lamae_. She had expected, if anything attacked her, that it would be the person whose corpse she was robbing.

She did not expect the sudden _schwiiick_ of iron spikes jolting up from beneath the coffin, slamming into her chest and stomach so powerfully that she’s lifted from her feet, near _punched_ into the air—

Dawnbreaker clatters to the floor. The enchanted dagger slips from her fingers, bouncing off of Lamae’s side and toppling into the depths of the coffin that surrounds her. Dumbly, Eres almost reaches for it—but her hands close instead around the spikes as she feels them sink into her, as she feels _herself_ sink onto them. She braces her hands on them, clutching them like she might stop it, like she might be able to lift herself off it, but her fingers slick with blood and her hands slip and she plunges down several inches at once, then several more—

And then all of it as once lurches through her, slotting jaggedly through her flesh and organs as her body falls to gravity, as she finds herself resting half in Lamae’s coffin herself, head resting on a chest whose heart does not beat.

Just like her own heart … starts to slow…


	3. Blood Matron

ACT IV  
CHAPTER III  
BLOOD MATRON

When Eres was younger, she had dreamed of the forest. Not the forests of Cyrodiil, where her father and his noble friends would flush the pheasants from their roosts for sport, but the ones her nursemaid had spoken of. The ones where the trees moved as well as people, where they did not die in the winter but migrated instead, like birds upon the wind. Eres would wake with the fleeting images of trees as large as the spire, pulling their roots from the soil like people merely tugging off their boots as they roamed, their canopies twinkling and glittering with the lights of all the people who lived within its branches.

Eres had thought, as a child, even as an adult—she’d like to see Falinesti before she died. Travel to her homeland, see her people for what they were, maybe even experience the great migration of the tree-lofted city for herself. Hear the Song of her brethren, of the soil beneath her feet, the bark that roughed her fingertips.

Eres was young. She’d thought she had time.

She’d always thought she’d have more time.

“You do, don’t you?”

Eres opens her eyes—should she be able to open them, if she is dead? But they open, and she finds herself staring into a pale, familiar face, white-blond hair falling to the woman’s chin, but—blue eyes. Blue. Not red.

“Lamae?” She asks, but her voice is not her own. She shivers as nails scratch gently at her scalp, threading through hair much shorter than she remembers it ever being.

“Who else would it be?” The woman—no, _girl_ —smiles at her, voice warm, amused—loving. She looks at Eres like she _knows_ her. But also like—like she sees through whoever Eres is within, and to Eres _herself_ , inside them.

Everything Lamae says sounds like double-speak, somehow—like she says one thing, and means another. Like she speaks in code, meant only to be understood by the one person who should not have been there, not existed in this moment of time at all.

How could she know?

How could she be _here_ , with a mortal Lamae, with—with Lamae before Molag Bal had violated her? Was this another memory, like she had seen with Jo’vanni?

Who is it that shows her these things? _Why?_ What does it mean?

More importantly—does it mean anything at all? Or is she just slowly losing her mind?

Eres pats at her stomach and chest, and finds nothing. No blood. No punctures. No spikes impaling her. No—no breasts.

Eres had never been especially well-endowed, being Bosmer, but she’d had _something_. But now when she presses her hands to her chest, she feels nothing but flat muscle beneath it. And when she looks, too, her chest is flat, and her hands are larger, and so is her body—larger and broader than she knew it to be.

She is in the body of a man, she realizes. But _whose_ body does she occupy? Whose memories does she see?

Who does Lamae see, when she looks at her? Who does Lamae look _past_ , in order to see _her_?

Or, Eres considers, she could be imagining it. With Jo’vanni, the memories she had experienced through him had been just memories. Campener’Ra had not seen her as anything other than Jo’vanni. What were the chances that this—if it truly _was_ a memory, whoever’s it happened to be—was something Lamae’s memory could be aware of?

Her head starts to hurt just thinking of it. The nails on her scalp makes her distinctly uncomfortable, knowing who they belong to—memory or not.

Eres sits up, looking away from the young, very much alive-looking Lamae. And she stares, awed, at the meadow that stretches out before her, the grassy hills and flowers and trees lining the edges, the great tree that rises high above them, its trunk so wide that even the two of them, side by side, do not match its width.

“Where am I?”

“Where you’re meant to be, of course.” Lamae answers, again with that tone, that strange, deep knowing in her eyes. Her eyes convey a meaning deeper than her words, and still, Eres does not understand.

Eres tries another question. “Who are you?”

She knows the answer—but how will Lamae answer her?

“I’m Lamae,” Lamae says, with a smile that might have looked bemused, were it not for the look in her eyes. The look that said, _Listen. Pay attention_. “ _Your_ Lamae,” she says. “Have you forgotten?” She tilts her head, looking at Eres with a sort of naïve curiosity.

Eres is sure that means _something_. That Lamae meant something else by that—that there is a deeper meaning she’s not quite catching.

_Your_ Lamae—then, did Lamae mean _hers_ , or the body whose memories she occupied?

_A clue_ , Eres realizes. Not _her_ Lamae, not herself—but the man whose memories she has fallen into. _His_ Lamae. But—her hands, her body, her hair—she touches her face, and that, too, feels human. High cheekbones. Short-cropped hair. A long nose and thin lips. She runs her tongue over her teeth— _his_ teeth?—but they feel… Like teeth. Not fangs.

She isn’t Molag Bal, is she? She couldn’t be.

But then, who had Lamae been, before she had been his? Who had loved her, before Molag Bal had stolen her away?

A warm hand closes over her own, squeezing gently and tugging her to her feet.

“Come,” Lamae says gently, still smiling at her. When she stands, Eres realizes that Lamae is much shorter than herself—or she is much taller. The man is much taller.

A Nord, then, maybe?

But no—no, back in Lamae’s time, it wouldn’t have been a Nord at all. And the high cheekbones, the sharpness of them and the length of the nose, that was closer to Elven. Had there been Altmer, then? Or… no. The Ayleid had ruled then.

Eres tries to think, tries to remember all she’s read of the origins of vampirism, of how Lamae had been turned—but all of the histories within the Vigilant archives had focused on Molag Bal and his ritual, on Lamae’s turning. _Not_ on her life prior, on who she had been before. Only what had happened to her, and what she had become. Lamae had become known only as the monster Molag Bal had created of her, and the mortal woman she had been before had been lost to history.

At least, _Vigilant_ history. But if she went to the Arcaneum…

“We should hurry,” Lamae says softly, tugging at her. “The sun is beginning to set.”

Eres looks, up and around them, but she can see nothing beyond the canopy of the trees, and a plain blue-ish sky rising over the meadow. The place seems almost too idyllic, too paradisal, too—too _good_. Too good for what lurks here. Too perfect to be real.

Eres allows Lamae to guide her, absently, because she knows of little else that she can do.

Was this a dream at all, even? Was this even like what happened with Jo’vanni?

Her hand presses to her chest again, to the places where she had felt her flesh punched through with iron, where she had felt the drag of the spike’s crimped rods as she slid down them.

Was she dead?

Was this merely—a glimpse of the afterlife? Or had Molag Bal taken her, and he’d merely meant to lure her into a false sense of security by sending Lamae to her first to retrieve her until he dragged her to his realm of Oblivion to do what he wished with her?

In the distance, Eres sees the gates of a castle looming on the horizon. As it draws ever closer, Lamae’s hand grows colder, clasped within her own.

By the time they reach the gates, Lamae’s touch is so cold that it almost numbs her, sends pain shooting into her chest just from the shock of how very cold she truly is.

The gates open, with no one attending them. Behind them, a long stone path stretches to the castle doors, flanked by the statues of gargoyles, frozen in time.

The numb chill in her hand is gone. It warms. Suddenly, there is nothing in her hand at all, and when she turns, Lamae is gone. She spins a full circle, looking for the girl in white, the white blond hair and pale skin, but all she sees are the walls of the castle, the stone pathways, and the meadow in the distance.

Eres turns again, back to the castle doors, and there she sees him, his dark form silhouetted against the iron-clad doors, so dark that he nearly blends with them entirely. He might have, were it not for the way the light glinted from the black of his armor, the pincers on either side of his head fine, bright points against the dark iron of the gargantuan doors behind him.

She has the distinct feeling he is smiling at her, under that helmet.

Her skin crawls. Eres forces it out of her mind, forces herself to walk toward him. Forces herself not to reach for the blade she knows is not there, knows that even if she _had_ Dawnbreaker now, what good would it do her?

“We meet again, Child of Stendarr.” He says, when she is in range of him, his voice like gravel dragged over chainmail, rumbling and low and enough to send chills down her spine with every word he speaks to her. Especially when he looks at her—or the hollows of where his eyes _should be_ look at her, and she gets that sense, that eerie understanding that beneath that helmet, his smile widens. “Molag Bal welcomes you.”

_Shove it up your ass_ , she might have said, if it was anyone else. But she stares back at him, silent. Wary.

What can she say to a god? He knows how much she despises him. Cursing him to his face would do nothing but get her killed—if she wasn’t already dead, that was.

And that smug, arrogant tone of his. How much she wished she could take that stupid helmet off, rip it in half from the pincers themselves until his face was exposed beneath it, punch him _one good time_ where he’d _feel it_. Did he know what pain felt like? _Could_ he?

Eres wishes she could be the one to introduce him to it.

“I am _your_ Lamae,” Eres hears from behind her, again the soft voice of Lamae—but _colder_ , darker.

When she turns, Lamae stands behind her—dress splattered red, blood dripping from her fingers, red foot prints trailing behind her, red eyes. Red eyes.

This isn’t the Lamae she’d met before. _This_ is the Lamae that Molag Bal had created. Had defiled. Had cursed for eternity.

“Don’t you _want_ to be with this girl forever?” His voice sounds at her ears, hot breath washing across her skin. Her entire body feels like it seizes, like it locks up, so repulsed by his proximity that when she jerks away from him, she does so mechanically, movements lurching and strange like she’s forgotten how movement works.

Molag Bal chuckles at her when she scowls at him.

“Her happiness is the Will of Stendarr, too,” he tells her, smug. Coaxing. Self-assured. His utter confidence in his words almost makes it sound true. Eres imagines, if she were less willful, less disgusted with him, less repulsed—just how easily he could sway her, sway anyone with that kind of dark, sinister charisma. The kind that spoke of power and ambition, of power he might hand to you, if you’re good enough. If you served him well.

“There is no need to abandon your faith,” he tells her, almost kindly. Almost gently. His tone almost cooing. The effect is lost on the gravelly growling rumble of his voice, making every word he says sound as though it bellows from the gut of a demon. The very demon he is. “Just take heart, and go on. Nothing more is needed. There’s no reason to hesitate, is there? You know this as well as I do.” She has the sense he’s smiling again, urging her. “Go on.”

Her lip curls in disgust. “You’re going to have to do a better job than that if you think you’re going to tempt me away from—”

“From?” Molag Bal asks, curious. “Your path?” He walks toward her, _ambles_ , really, far too casually, clasping his hands beneath his back. “The path of a Vigilant,” he murmurs, as he passes her, circles behind her. “A path you never wished to take in the first place.”

“Better a Vigilant than a monster.”

Molag Bal stops in front of her. He isn’t as tall as she thought he would be. Even in all his fancy armor, he’s merely a head taller than she is. For some reason, she had expected him to be…more imposing. Gigantic, maybe. Looming over her so much that she’d have to crane her neck back just to see him.

Were it not for his armor, and that evil, skin-crawling aura that surrounds him, Molag Bal could have passed for any other warrior in Tamriel.

“Is there a difference?” He asks bluntly.

Her brows snap together, her mouth opening to spit— _Yes_ , of course there is—but he speaks first.

“Think about it,” he murmurs to her, nearly purring as he leans into her space, leans down to her face. “What difference is there in you, a Vigilant, imposing the will of Stendarr on people who don’t want it—and my creations, imposing mine? Are they not both merely…” Molag Bal straightens, looks down at her. That smug _bastard_. “Forms of domination? Mere _facets_ of my own realm?”

“Stendarr is nothing like you.” Eres is not sure she would have starved herself like the Vigilants in the tunnels had in his name, but she has her own faith in him—however much more conditional it had been for her. It was Stendarr she had to thank for her life now, Stendarr whose reach had allowed her to save many, to offer salvation to those who needed it.

Stendarr’s Will was _mercy_ , was love in its own form.

Molag Bal’s was nothing more than _greed_ , and self-centered lust, and _violence_. They were not the same.

They could never be the same.

“I wonder,” Molag Bal muses. He eyes her like he expects her to come to him willingly, like she’ll change her mind if he’s convincing enough. “And yet you—there is such _power_ within you. If only you used it to _take_ what you wanted. Have you any idea what you could accomplish, without your precious morals crippling you?”

“You won’t tempt me.” Eres actually crosses her arms over her chest, glares at him.

She thinks she knows his game, now. She could be wrong, of course, in which case—she’s already dead, so what does it matter? But she’s certain:

Molag Bal, for whatever reason, doesn’t merely want to take her, drag her kicking and screaming against her will. He could do that, certainly, and with very little effort on his part, too.

No. Molag Bal didn’t _just_ want to dominate her. He wanted to break her down. He wanted her to bend to him _willfully_. He wanted to corrupt her, as he had corrupted Jacob before her.

His game was not leading her to corruption itself, waiting for her to misstep. His game was _manipulation_ , feeding off the thrill of bringin even the most devout to heel.

He could dominate, certainly. He had plenty of influence on Nirn, even without being summoned there physically. He had more than enough ability to take her whenever he wanted, to have taken Altano—but no, that would be _boring_. What fun was it, to simply take, knowing that your victim stood no chance against you?

The game—the thrill of the chase, the thrill of the temptation and the breaking and the corrupting in and of itself—that was what Molag Bal wanted from her. That was why he hadn’t killed her yet, why he’d shown her this memory of Lamae, why he’d asked her so plainly—

_“Don’t you want to take her?”_

Molag Bal wanted to make her become _him_. He wanted to break her until there was nothing left of herself, and mold her in his image.

Or, when the job was done and she bowed to him, would he simply get bored of her, too? As he had with Altano? As he likely had with Jacob? Once the game was won, what was the point in playing?

Molag Bal would merely find a new target to twist and manipulate. Another Vigilant, maybe—he seemed to like those. Once he was done with her, he’d throw her out with the rest of them, discarded like the trash she would become under his thumb.

Eres isn’t going to give him the satisfaction. She’d rather die. Her glare hardens, and Molag Bal straightens.

She hears what sounds like a short chuckle, feels what seems like his satisfied smirk, aimed at her.

He reaches out to touch her, clawed hand coming for her face. Her hand moves to smack his arm away before she can control her instinct to do so, and for a moment, he stands there, his arm awkwardly out to one side, hovering in the air as if held aloft by some unseen force.

Then he draws it back to his side, and he laughs.

“You, my dear,” he says, his voice darker, thicker, more sinister than she’s heard it yet, “will be a _pleasure.”_

The visage of Lamae, standing idly behind him, fades. Then the stone of the castle surrounding them. The iron bar of the gates. The rich, lush grass of the meadows beyond.

The air… _shifts_ , warps, distorts in a way not so unlike what stepping through the wayshrine portals had been like, back in the Forgotten Vale. Her head swims, her balance tipping so violently that she stumbles even standing straight up—

And then she blinks, and she is…

She is standing just near Lamae’s coffin, in the throne room. The woman’s corpse beneath her is not _fresh and young and pretty_ but withered and rotted and flesh pulled tight to bone, mouth open in a horrifying, permanent scream of anguish, hands folded over her chest as if someone had thought that might have made her seem more at peace.

Molag Bal in his dark armor stands just in front of her, looking down at her, smiling under his helmet. Smug. Arrogant. Playful, almost, in a way that’s too familiar and _disgusting_ to think about.

He thinks she’s a toy. A fun, new toy for him to play with until he gets bored again.

The dagger thrums in her hand, cold steel against her fingers.

“I look forward to your _submi_ —” Molag Bal chokes, freezing.

Eres is almost as surprised as he is.

The skin on the back of her knuckles brushes against the cold metal of his armor, where the short blade of the dagger sinks beneath it, punching through the metal as if it were made of butter.

It’s—not like stabbing a human, Eres realizes. It’s not like feeling _flesh_ give way to the blade, the deep _schlick_ of it sinking home through muscle and fat and bone. Instead, it feels almost like she’s pierced a blade through a thick, viscous smoke, like there’s not a person inside that armor, but more of an _essence_ , an entity rather than a _being_.

“You stabbed me.”

His shock might have been funny, were she not completely and utterly fucked. She just stabbed a fucking _God_. Did she have a deathwish?

She jerks her hand back, dagger coming with it. Molag Bal does not bleed. He doesn’t even look particularly pained by it, just—surprised. Taken a bit off guard.

Molag Bal looks at the punched-in hole in his armor, almost curiously, as though he’s never seen himself damaged before. Before her very eyes, the metal twists and bends, shifting, snapping back into place around his form. In mere moments, there is no sign that she had ever stabbed him at all.

“Hm.” He says, with what sounds like interest. Fascination. He looks at her again, the ink-black hollows of what might have been eyes on a mortal peering right through her. Languidly, Molag Bal flicks his hand behind him, a casual, almost dismissive gesture.

Eres hears a creak. A low, keening moan. The sounds of joints snapping and popping into place, wet and hollow and stomach-curling. Just over his shoulder, she sees Lamae’s corpse lurching out of her coffin, the movements jerking and unnatural, each punctuated with a sickening, wet pop of bone upon bone.

Lamae does not stand, her body deformed, joints twisted at unnatural angles that makes Eres’ stomach turn to look at it. Lamae’s head rolls upon her neck, snapping, popping, jerking as though some unseen force manipulates it from the beyond and doesn’t quite know how mortals’ bodies work.

Her eyes, mere hollow sockets beneath the rot and grime of decomposition, glow red—and fix upon Eres. She raises her head, and Eres swallows down the horror that spikes at the back of her neck.

Lamae’s mouth still gapes at her, split open in the eternal scream of the tormented, open so widely it looks as though someone had snapped her jaw and _pulled_ , spreading her mouth open as far as it could go, freezing her lips into the shape of a permanent, blood-curdling scream.

“Rise, Lamae.” Molag Bal calls to her. She twists, snapping to listen, mouth still agape, eyes still hollow pools of glowing red. “Rise and sink your teeth into the flesh of this mortal, and I will let you dream again.”

Lamae snaps her head to look at Eres, transfixed. She bends forward, folding at the waist, and she _screams_. Shrill, ear-piercingly loud, punctuated by an anguished cry beneath what could have been a banshee’s* death-calling wail. The sound makes Eres’ ears hurt, her skin prickle, the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck rising as a chill settles over her entire body.

Lamae—or the foul, hardly-alive looking thing that she had become under Molag Bal’s influence—lurches towards her with a shambling step, a low, wet gurgling of a growl filling the air as she approaches.

In front of her, Molag Bal laughs. He laughs even as his form begins to fade, even as flames, summoned from Oblivion, rise to engulf the perimeter of the room, trapping them inside. He laughs even as Lamae’s hand comes clawing through his not-quite-there stomach to swipe at Eres.

His laugh echoes in her mind, even as she hears the high-pitched, whirring _keen_ of Dawnbreaker on her back, vibrating so powerfully that when she closes her hand around its hilt, she very nearly drops it.

Dawnbreaker shrills into the air as she draws it, and Lamae, even as the leathery remains of her skin pulled tight against her bones begins to redden and blacken, crackling, charring at the edges, lunges for her.

Eres swings the holy blade, feels it meet resistance. The arm never reaches her, instead clattering to the floor at her feet, severed clean off in a single swipe.

Lamae doesn’t so much as flinch, doesn’t even seem to register that her arm is gone. Only that low, hissing wet warbling, somewhere deep in her throat, not quite a shriek but something resembling it, somehow, like her voice has been lost deep beneath the surface and Eres can only hear the teeniest hint of it that can reach her.

_Listen_ , Eres hears in her mind. _Pay attention_.

Eres darts back, nimble on her feet. Molag Bal should have impaled her for real if he planned to kill her like this—she’d have been much easier to topple if she’d bled out all over the floor. But without the impalement she’d seen so vividly in her mind, and the effects of the potions still strong in her veins, Eres feels light-footed and assured.

Seeing one of Inigo’s arrows sprout from Lamae’s head, burying itself in the very back of it, only makes her surer.

She can end this.

The cry comes again, that rumbling-wet sound that sets her on edge, but beneath it—beneath it, she hears it. It feels almost like the cry she hears beneath that growling comes to her from another plane entirely, so dim is it in her ears in comparison.

But if she _listens_ , she can hear it.

Anguish. Torment. _Pleading_.

The dagger she had thrust into Molag Bal’s stomach thrums in her left hand, the cold wrapped-leather of the hilt warming against her skin.

_Use me_ , it seemed to say. _Use me_.

Inigo distracts her, firing arrow after arrow from one corner of the room to the next, calling out to her, taunting her, trying to catch her attention. At first it doesn’t work—Eres is her target, and Lamae has eyes only for her—but his arrows begin to impede her movement, and she rouses, spinning slowly to face him, the growl rising into a warning shriek.

Eres runs for her with Dawnbreaker clutched tight in her right hand, the dagger in the other, and sends the point of Meridia’s holy blade piercing through Lamae’s back all the way up to the hilt.

Lamae staggers. She attempts to turn, joints popping as she moves against their natural limits.

Eres yanks Dawnbreaker from her abdomen, leans back, and kicks the woman right in her caved-in chest with all the strength she has.

It does little to throw her, but Lamae stumbles backward, just enough that her foot catches upon the stairs, so that her body tips and her lumbering form goes down in a pile of tangled, broken bones.

Eres tosses Dawnbreaker to the ground and leaps on her, closes both hands around the hilt of that dagger, thrumming hotly between her fingers, and she plunges it into her heart.

A vampire could not be killed with a blow to the heart. Not usually. A blow to the heart wouldn’t even stagger most of them. Not with a normal weapon. With Dawnbreaker, perhaps. Perhaps even with silver.

Nothing compares to the effect of the dagger piercing Lamae’s chest where her heart should have been, where there is little more than leathery skin and bone.

Eres feels something _shift_ in the air, in the atmosphere that surrounds them. Lamae stills beneath her, hollow eyes blazing up at her—

And then, slowly, they start to dim. Dim from the bright, fevered blood red. Eres stiffens when she hears the cracking, wet pop of bones shifting beneath her, of Lamae’s jaw shifting suddenly back into place, the skin…hydrating, somehow, becoming supple and turning from a leathery brown to a pale, porcelain white as her mouth eases closed, as flesh and lips reform where only skeletal teeth had remained.

As the glowing ember of her hollowed-out eyes filled, eyelids closing over them to open with _eyes_ beneath them, real ones—mortal ones, glowing red in the dim lighting of the throne room, staring unseeingly up at Eres from below her. Then even that glowing red faded to a dull amber, a deep hazel, and then a soft, cornflower blue that shone wet with unshed tears.

Looking right at her.

Seeing her. For her.

One of Lamae’s cold, soft hands closed over her own, over the hands the hold the dagger driven deep into her chest. That cold hand squeezes tight, grip near a death vice as Lamae’s blue, mortal eyes stare hard into hers, burning with a life she has not had in millennia.

“You free them,” Lamae husked fiercely, mouth curling over the effort it took merely to speak to her. “Bring his—his fortress… down around him. His pillars—”

Another cold hand claps against her left wrist, closing tight around it, and her skin _burns_ beneath her hold. She jerks back, pulling, but Lamae holds her fast, the burning sinking deep into her skin, branding her beneath that grip—

“The past,” Lamae rasps, eyes wild, a little frantic, a little scary. “The past is not—not set in stone. All—Dragon...” Eres brow creases with confusion. The skin at her wrist still burns hotly, but in the way of a burn already made and just starting to be felt. “Only a god can…kill a god…”

“I’m not a god,” Eres says, looking down at her with some pity in her eyes. Just what—or who—did Lamae think she was?

But Lamae merely smiles up at her. Her grip on Eres’ hand and wrist relaxes, her fingers loosening, hands dropping to her chest as her form settles into—her second death? Third, maybe?

But the _way_ Lamae smiles at her, with that knowing look in her eyes—the same one she’d had in her dreams, when she looked at Eres like she knew everything there was to know about her, like she’d seen Eres beneath the façade she had briefly occupied. Like she knew things even Eres did not.

“Arkay’s Blessings be upon you,” Lamae murmured, with her last breath.

Her eyes—still blue, still clear of that wild, feral frenzy—fluttered closed. Her body went slack, and stilled. Her chest did not rise and fall, but vampires did not need to breathe, anyways.

Eres yanks out the dagger, with some considerable effort as the blade slots and drags against bone, thrust narrowly between two ribs near the sternum. When she pulls it free at last, the dagger is clean—not a drop of blood soils its pristine blade, not even the brown-black, thicker blood that vampires were known to have. Nothing. As if Lamae’s chest had been filled with nothing but air.

Eres stares down at her. She touches Lamae’s cheek with her fingertips, feeling flesh—cold, but smooth flesh.

“Uh…” Inigo says beside her. “Is she dead now, or… are we going to have to kill her again?”

“You see her?” Eres asks, before she can stop herself.

Inigo stares at her, looking a bit wary. “Yes…” He says slowly, uncertainly. “Am I…not supposed to? Inigo can pretend she is not there, if you would like, but—”

“No, no,” Eres jumps to her feet. She sways, dizzy with the sudden movement. Her headache thumps dully against her temples, threatening to return with a vengeance. “No, I thought—I thought I might have been hallucinating.”

But when she looks, Lamae’s body is still there, still at rest. The dagger, of a make and form Eres still can’t identify, older probably than she can imagine, is still as solid and heavy in her hand as it had been before, when she’d first pulled it from Lamae’s fingers. Dawnbreaker still hums mutinously from where it lays on the floor, but its keening whine is not as shrill as it had been before, not quite as infused with Meridia’s white-hot fury towards Molag Bal, now that he had left them.

Everything—everything seems real.

Well. _Almost_ everything.

Eres tucks the dagger into her waistband, and her hands brush against the unmarred fabric of her robes. Unbloodied, save for the dark spatters of the vampires they’d faced in the tunnels. Soiled, but from dirt and grime and blood that wasn’t her own.

Not _her_ blood. There are no holes in the fabric were iron may have pierced her body. There is no pain, not even the echoes of it from where she had felt them impale her, from the jerking when she’d tried so valiantly to stop herself from falling upon them as she had… It was like they had never been there at all. Like it had all just been a dream.

“Are you…feeling okay?” Inigo asks haltingly. “Before, you were…” he wrinkles his snout, grimacing. “Staring at nothing, for a long time. Inigo was worried—he could not wake you. And then, you were talking to yourself…”

“Not myself,” she tells him. “Molag Bal.” Inigo blinks at her. “He was here, just—” She sighs, shaking her head. Of course Molag Bal would have only appeared to her. He didn’t give a damn about Inigo. “I guess I was the only one who could see him.”

Inigo eyes her up and down. “I think those potions have gone to your head. We should kill her again and leave before you lose your mind down here.”

“I think she’s dead for good already, actually.” Eres frowns, even as she says the words, because she’s not really sure how she just _knows_ that.

Lamae doesn’t look dead at all. In fact, she looks a lot like Serana had looked when she’d fallen out of her tomb—pale, pristine, serene. Asleep. Not dead. Eres feels almost like if she stares long enough, she’ll see Lamae breathe.

But there is a part of her that _knows_ , deep down, that this is the end of it. That Lamae is at rest, at long last. Something about that feels like a certainty.

And the mark on her arm…

Eres turns her arm over, looking down at the inside of her wrist. She’d almost expected that it would have burnt through the outside of her vambraces, but no—the leather around her forearms is pristine, untouched; but the skin beneath it _burns._

Eres pulls the strings loose, uncaring, and she sees the edges of angry red lines against her skin, still burning hotly beneath.

When the air hits it, it only burns hotter. She hisses under her breath as she pulls the vambrace free, shoves down the sleeve of her undershirt that had been beneath it. Etched into her skin—no, _branded—_ is a rune, an old one that she can’t read, but it _must_ have been a rune with its hard lines and angles.

“It looks like a tree,” Inigo notes, leaning over to look at it.

It did, Eres agrees. A solid line straight down the middle, and two lines that forked out about three-quarters of the way up her wrist toward her palm, so that the ‘canopy’ of the tree faced outward, the trunk pointing to her elbow.

The rune looks vaguely familiar, but Eres can’t place it. She has a lot she must remember to look up when she gets home. Lamae’s past, who she’d been before she’d been taken, the rune itself, the Ayleid—and whatever Lamae had meant by that last phrase.

_Arkay’s Blessings upon you_.

Had it just been to prove that she was free from Molag Bal’s influence, by speaking the name of the god who was his greatest rival next to Stendarr himself?

Or had it been another of her coded messages? What about _Arkay_ had anything to do with pillars and fortresses? Or—had she been referring to _Eres_ when she said that?

_Only a god can kill a god._

_I’m not a god._

_Arkay’s Blessings upon you._

Arkay… He had…

_No_. _That’s ridiculous. That can’t have been what she meant._ Eres shakes her head. She pockets her vambrace and rolls her sleeve to remain at her elbow. The skin feels better with the air cooling it, if only vaguely.

Eres pushes those thoughts from her mind entirely. She gathers up her things, checks her gear. She holds Dawnbreaker in her hands for a quiet moment, listening to its quiet, barely-there hum.

There were still a few more, then, Eres figures, if Dawnbreaker was still not silent. She beckons for Inigo to follow her, and, as one, they exit back through the door they’d come, back down the halls and empty rooms.

Dawnbreaker’s hum strengthens when they make it back to the room with the pews.

“Do not attack me.”

Eres spins in place, Dawnbreaker already in hand, lowering into a ready stance—but she sees nothing in the vicinity, despite Dawnbreaker’s telltale thrumming in her hand.

“I only wish to speak with you.” The voice was a deep, wizened sound, a baritone that is, Eres admits, pleasing on the ears, despite its source: something just to her right and in front of her, cloaked in invisibility beneath a spell she can’t quite see through.

She squints, seeing the air ripple ever so slightly. She can _just_ see the shape of a form in those ripples, a body, but her eyes want to glide over that form, move past it, don’t want to focus too deeply on it no matter how badly she tries to. It’s a powerful invisibility spell, one she only recognizes because she knows that Serana is capable of the same, for all she hardly ever used it.

“Who are you?”

Eres brandishes Dawnbreaker even as she waits for a response, raising it in front of her to be ready to strike or parry at any moment.

“I am not an enemy,” the deep voice said calmly. It’s still coming from directly in front of her, just out of her range. It hasn’t bothered to move at all. “Nor am I your friend.”

Eres’ mouth purses. “Is that supposed to make me trust you?”

“Not at all.” A much stronger ripple in the air, and then a form begins to solidify in her vision. A form whose features are not quite humanoid, not quite bat-like, but something in between. It floats somewhere several inches from the ground, tattered bat-like wings sprouting from its back but not keeping it aloft, merely—there, like the Vampire Lord form that Eres had read about, but smaller. Less polished. This one looked more like a mistake, a mutation, than the gift of even a god like Molag Bal.

“I wish you… no harm,” it says haltingly. It speaks with a tone of deep, disarming respect, despite its hesitation, and Eres falters. The voice sounds archaic, somehow. Ancient. Older even than Serana, or even Harkon or Valerica.

“As if we’re going to beli—”

Eres holds up her hand, and Inigo closes his mouth so quickly she hears his teeth click together. “Who are you?” She asks again.

“My name is Facis,” the man—vampire says. “I am— _was_ a servant of Lady Lamae.”

“Was?” Inigo asks. “So she _is_ dead for good then.”

The mutant-thing nods, slow and measured. “Lady Lamae has fallen into her last, eternal sleep. She will never wake up again.”

“But…why?” Inigo asks. “We didn’t even cut off her head! Or burn her. Or both.”

The vampire’s expression chills at his words, and Eres sends him a warning glare. He quiets, stepping back again. The vampire stares him down a moment longer, and then his eyes turn slowly to rest upon Eres once more.

“Her soul left the grasp of Molag Bal and now rests in the embrace of Arkay,” he intones, speaking the words as practiced as though he had rehearsed them many times over, waiting for a day he might be able to speak them aloud. “I cannot thank you enough for freeing her from her suffering.”

Eres stares at him. By all appearances, he looks no different from some of the feral beasts they had encountered in the tunnels. But he speaks as well as any nobleman she’s ever met. Perhaps even better.

“You’re…thanking me,” she says slowly, trying to wrap her mind around it. “For killing your Lady.”

His mouth purses. “Lady Lamae was like a mother to us. We were borne from her breast, in a manner of speaking. Of course, in that regard, I do despise you for causing her such harm. But—we of her Blood are connected in ways that others cannot begin to fathom. Connected in body, in mind, in _heart_. There was nothing our lady wished more for than to be freed from this existence.”

He eyes her dispassionately. “How could I turn my fangs upon the one who fulfilled her wish? Who might still serve her in the future?” His eyes drop first to her wrist—and then to the dagger at her belt.

“You know what this means, don’t you.” She doesn’t so much ask as state it bluntly, because she knows that he does. “This rune. And the dagger, too—you know the power it has?”

“I do,” said Facis slowly. His eyes drift to her wrist. “The rune is that of Nedic origin,” he explains simply. “It means _elk_.”

Eres blinks. Frowns. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Protection,” Facis says quietly. “Warding from evil.” He pauses, holds her gaze meaningfully. “From corruption.”

_Oh,_ she thinks.

“Oh,” she says, with significantly more gravity. “…Does it work?”

Facis shrugs—sort of, or he imitates what might be the closest thing he can manage, given the strange shape of his body. “That remains to be seen. I imagine our lady believed that it would.”

Eres nods. She’s still going to look it up when she gets back to the Temple, but she does feel a bit better. Just a bit, if only for knowing that she at least hasn’t been cursed again.

“And the dagger?”

Facis nods, more to himself than to her, it seems. “It belonged to the bard.”

“Bard?” Inigo swivels his head around, ears perking and tail lashing with interest. “Where?”

Facis doesn’t even look at him, this time, but merely sighs. “ _The_ bard,” he says simply.

Like she’s supposed to just know which bard he means. “Who is this bard?”

Facis’ brow furrows. He frowns, and a strange look comes over his face.

“I do not know,” he admits slowly. “I know only what our lady has said of him—he was a bard. And she loved him.”

“…That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Facis nods. “That is all I know. Perhaps your Vigilants will know more.”

“This bard—was it before or after she became a vampire?”

“ _Matron_ ,” he corrects her. “Before,” he answered, in the next breath. “She did not like to speak of it often. It made her…uncomfortable.”

Eres is sure that ‘uncomfortable’ is perhaps the biggest understatement she’s ever heard. She’s read about some of the things Lamae had done, following Molag Bal’s turning of her. She had been nearly as monstrous as he was, corrupted entirely by his influence. _Uncomfortable_ was perhaps the most diplomatic way of putting it.

“The dagger seemed to have some kind of special effect on Lamae…” Not Molag Bal, unfortunately.

Facis nods again. “It is connected. As you are connected.” She frowns at him. “To all of this, now.”

His eyes darkened with warning as he looked down at her. “Molag Bal will not be pleased that you freed his favorite. He will exact his displeasure upon you, one way or another. Be on your guard, Dragon-blood. Or he may take you when you least expect it.”


	4. Return to Form

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can find me on tumblr @nightinngales. there's also now a bio page and short little wiki resource on my page. bios sadly only work on desktop however. this is what a hyperfixation looks like my dudes

ACT IV  
CHAPTER IV  
RETURN TO FORM

As much as Eres could have wished that finishing the investigation in Windhelm would have been the end of things, finding someone to take her place as Keeper is not as easy a task as she might have hoped it would be.

Upon the return from Windhelm, trawling up from the city locked in an eternal winter so far north, the roads only grew colder and more treacherous as they made their way west to Dawnstar. By the time that Eres and Inigo have disembarked from their carriage in Dawnstar, the biting wind of winter’s approach tugs all-too-strongly at their cloaks.

As it is every winter—or at least, the one that Eres has experienced thus far as Keeper—many of the Vigilants are further south to spend their winters elsewhere, where the weather is not so dangerous, not so dreary. Eres had delivered her report to Gwyneth to be filed away in the archives with some trepidation, expecting that Gwyneth would only assail her with yet another task to be completed—but the girl had only smiled and turned away.

In the absence of work that called immediately to her attention, and with the sudden addition of a Khajiit tagalong who could be an accidental terror when he had nothing to occupy himself, Eres comes to a rather hasty decision just days after arriving.

She deserves a break.

And what better a place to rest for the slow season in the dead of winter than her own home, in Fellburg? Fellburg, which she has not visited in so long she’s not even sure she’ll recognize it when she returns.

She does feel somewhat guilty for leaving Gwyneth behind, but the girl had been insistent that Eres take time to spend with family, and Gwyneth would remain within the Temple to handle any tasks that didn’t require her attention.

“If anything comes up—”

“Yes, yes,” Gwyneth waves off her concerns with a mitted hand, hood drawn tight around her face. Even in the Stuhn Ravine, the wind blows bitterly cold around them. The horse beneath Eres shifts impatiently, even as Gwyneth runs an assuring hand down its long snout. “I will contact you right away if you’re needed.”

“You remember—”

“I remember,” Gwyneth cuts in, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. “Lemon ink. You’ve just reminded me again not five minutes ago.”

Eres’ mouth twists. It still doesn’t quite feel right to leave her behind in this place. Perhaps it’s merely the memory of Altano, and leaving Gwyneth alone back then that draws her short.

“Are you certain you don’t wish to come?”

“I’m sure.” Gwyneth pats the horse’s long face once more, gently, smiling when the beast shakes its head with a soft whinny. “You should get going. Winter’s not going to wait for you to make it home.”

“That it will not, my good friend,” Inigo says, his horse near bumping into Eres’ leg. She frowns at him, finding him holding the reins unsteadily. Despite his awkward grip, his posture is easy, confident, as is the grin on his face. If nothing else, no one could fault Inigo for lack of confidence. “Inigo is eager to see where such a hero grew up as a child.”

At that, Eres rolls her eyes, even as Gwyneth giggles somewhere below.

“We’d have to go a lot further than Fellburg for that, I’m afraid,” Eres says, sending him a wry look. “I was raised in the Imperial City. I’ve only moved here in the past—year or so?” Eres frowns, her brow furrowing. So much has happened, it feels like it should have been longer than a year. How much time _had_ passed since she’d arrived in Skyrim?

“Ah,” Inigo nods. “I should have known. That accent of yours is a dead giveaway!” he points at her, exaggeratedly, almost accusingly. “Imperial swine!”

Eres shakes her head at him, turning back to Gwyneth. “Don’t be afraid to contact me just because you don’t want to bother me. If something’s that matter—”

“ _Yes, mother_ ,” Gwyneth finally says, sounding a bit exasperated. “I’m just as old as you are, you know. And these horses are going to freeze if you don’t get moving. Do you know how much we paid for these?”

Eres makes a face. “I would rather not know, actually.” Even if Fellburg is well off now, the thought of spending several thousand septims on a horse still doesn’t sit well with her. And Gwyneth had bought several for the Temple, and even had Eres sign off on the construction of a stable—belatedly, that was. After its construction had already started.

Eres supposes it is a good investment, especially with stock coming from Windhelm, where the horses were bred to excel in the harsh winter climate. And, given that she no longer has to send money back to Fellburg anymore, the coffers of the Vigilants have certainly expanded enough that they might afford such comforts.

But Vigilants fight _Daedra_ , and Eres is all too aware of how little they cared about collateral damage. She gives the horses a few months before they’re killed in battle, or lost somewhere after they’ve run off.

Well, Eres hopes, a few months from now, perhaps the Vigilants and what they do with their coin will no longer be a concern of hers. And, it means she doesn’t have to sit in some cramped carriage for several dozen hours on the ride back to Fellburg.

With horses of their own, Eres and Inigo will be able to take shorter paths a carriage could not, such as cutting through the forest of the Whiterun tundra where the roads had not yet been built, shaving their travel time easily by half.

Eres knows that forest well, and knows even better how to get to Fellburg from just about any direction within it.

Now, her blood thrums with anticipation, and she feels that eagerness, tamped down by her sense of duty and responsibility, building inside her.

 _Home_.

She’s going to be _home_ , in just a few days. How big was Neil, now? He must be—gods, approaching three, perhaps? Had it been so long, truly? And Julia—she’ll be getting into her teens, now.

“Well, then,” Eres straightens in her saddle, trying not to look too overeager, if at least for her own sense of pride. “We’ll be off. Until next we meet, Gwyneth.”

“Until next time.” Gwyneth waves a mitted hand as they turn their steeds in unison, pushing them into a gentle trot as they make their way out from the courtyard of the temple, into the Stuhn Ravine, and then, shortly, down the short pass in the mountains to meet up with the main road just near Dawnstar.

From there, they traveled south following the main road, the one that would take them back to Windhelm should they follow its bend east, but instead Eres turns them down a smaller road that forks off to the south, between the mountains. They have to skirt around the old Fort Dunstad, not fond of inviting bandits to kill the horses they ride on, and that road takes them all the way down to the Whitewatch Tower at the very edge of Whiterun Hold.

They make it only to the Tower before night falls, and, after some persuading on Eres’ end, the guards even allow them to set camp within the Tower’s sprawling complex, though not without surrendering their weapons first.

Eres is more than glad to do so, happy to spend a night in relative safety rather than risk camping in the wilderness where both of them would have to take turns keeping watch, and risk being ambushed by bandits or other unsavory types in the middle of the night.

“How much farther is this Fellburg?” Inigo asks her, when they’ve laid out their bedrolls near a small bonfire Eres had built, several meters from the nearest campsite of Whiterun guards resting for the night.

Whitewatch Tower was a particularly dangerous outpost, one that saw more bandit activity than most, and so was often staffed year-round with several small contingents of guards on a rotating schedule so that there was never less than ten of them alert and ready for any attack that might come. It meant that Eres and Inigo could not have chosen a safer place to camp, given just how many bodies were between them and any who might try their luck in the night, but it also meant that there was not an abundance of space within the extended camps surrounding the tower itself. It did seem they were expanding on it—Eres could see several buildings still in construction, but given the snow upon the brick and wood, she assumes that construction has likely been halted for the winter.

“Not much,” Eres answers, accepting the stew he hands her with a nod of gratitude. “Another day, perhaps.”

Inigo sits on his own bedroll, puts his bowl up to his face, and sniffs cautiously, several times. Then he lets out an appreciative hum. “Eat, my friend,” he calls to her, brandishing his own spoon. “This is cooked well.”

That, Eres has since come to appreciate, is an underrated bonus of having a Khajiit as a partner. Her sense of smell is better than that of a human’s, much better—but there are still some things she can’t catch, smells she can’t quite pick apart. Inigo, however, has the same too-keen sense of smell as most Khajiit, not at all dulled by his past drug use. Eres had discovered Inigo had the ability to smell not only when meat was just beginning to turn, but also exactly how fresh it was—and he has, to this point, been unwaveringly accurate.

Eres had not thought the Whiterun guard would be feeding themselves poorly, but she is glad the food has Inigo’s seal of approval all the same. The last thing she wants is to find herself ill once she finally gets home.

“What is your home like?”

“I don’t know,” Eres answers, after a long moment. Inigo looks up at her, brows raised, and Eres sends him a wry smile. “It’s probably been..." Eres frowns. Tries to remember. When was the last time she had stopped in Fellburg? Hadn't it been just after she'd delivered Serana back home, the first time? It could only have been a couple of months, at most. It felt like years. "A few months, at least, and it's been growing quickly. I’m sure it’s changed quite a bit since I last saw it.”

“Could it have changed so much in that time? Cities do not change.”

“It’s not a city,” Eres shrugs. “A village, I suppose.” Would it be called a village, now? Or a town? Just how big could Fellburg have gotten in just a few months? With both the mines open, now, Eres is sure Fellburg would have attracted more settlers, but just how many? She still hasn't even had time to remember to check for Yosef's letters back at the temple. She has no idea what it might look like now, how big it might have gotten, how many people may have decided to make their homes there, under the few statutes that Eres had left behind for any who might wish to build on her land in the future. “I forgot we’ve not actually spoken much about this.”

“We did not have time,” Inigo concedes. “With vampires and blood matrons, _eugh_ ,” he shudders, then slurps loudly at his bowl. “I am very glad to be out of those tunnels. Inigo _will_ follow you anywhere, but he would be very happy if we did not go into any dark tunnels again any time soon.”

“That makes two of us.”

Inigo eats a bit sloppily, which bothers her, but she assumes he’s likely never been trained on proper etiquette. He has gotten better since travelling with her, though, and even corrects himself when she sends him a warning look for slurping a bit too loud.

“Inigo is sorry—it is very good stew.”

She waves him off. “Where are you from, Inigo?”

“Where is Inigo from?” Inigo asks her, tilting his head. “Why does this matter? Inigo is from Elswyr, of course, but he has not been there in some time. I like Skyrim better.”

“Do you?” She’s surprised by this, she would admit. Most Khajiit she’d interacted with, even just to trade when she happened upon their caravans every so often, had often complained of Skyrim’s weather, and how much they missed home. “I thought you’d miss it.”

“Not me.” Inigo shrugs. “Elswyr is nice, but there is niceness in Skyrim, also.” He looks at her and smiles. “For example, Inigo has a friend in Skyrim, now.”

Eres smiles back at him. She feels a bit freer, now, knowing that she has time away from the Vigilants. She knows that many of them will not return to the Temple until winter has passed, and until then, she must remain as Keeper. But for now, she has a bit of freedom; freedom she has not had for quite some time. It makes it easier to smile and laugh with Inigo, not feeling so burdened by so many responsibilities.

“You do,” she agrees. “And when we get to my home, you’ll meet others as well.”

Again, she contemplates whether she should try to convince Inigo to remain in Fellburg. Certainly, Fellburg would be a good place for him. It was safe, it had walls, it was where other people important to her remained throughout the year. Inigo could make his home there, and there was also the Khajiit trader who used to have a stall just by the road—if he was still there, Inigo could have a friend in him, too.

But would Inigo want to leave? Based on what she’d found in him, she doubts that he will agree to stay behind so easily. She’d thought maybe he would change his mind after Windhelm, being thrust into such a perilous situation just after meeting her, but he only seems more determined to remain by her side.

Eres wonders if he would get along with Serana.

“Tell me,” Inigo says suddenly, setting down his bowl.

Eres blinks. “Tell you what?”

“What is on your mind.” Inigo digs in his pocket, producing a single copper septim. “A septim for your thoughts.”

She narrows her eyes at him. Where did he even get that? She’d been the one carrying all the money.

It isn’t that she minds him having money of his own—she’d even offered it to him, but he’d said he felt more comfortable with her carrying it. Had Inigo pickpocketed her, and she hadn’t even noticed? This cat is far too sneaky for his own good.

“You seem as though something is bothering you.”

“Ah,” Eres says. “Nothing is, really. I was just wondering if you would get along with another friend of mine.”

Inigo frowns. “Are they a bad person?” Eres shakes her head. Serana most certainly is not. “Then Inigo will like them, I am sure. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine. Will they be in Fellburg?”

“No,” Eres says, though she doesn’t know for sure, really. As far as she knows, Serana is still in her castle. It was possible she’d moved on, gone back to the Dawnguard, but Eres hasn’t heard from her just yet. It’s also possible that Serana could find Fellburg on her own—Eres had mentioned it once before, and its general location. But she doubts Serana would go there on her own, without reason to believe Eres would be there. “She’s probably at her home now, or with the Dawnguard.”

“The Dawnguard?” Inigo’s brows raise. “Is this why you were so good at dispatching the vampires in the tunnels? You are Dawnguard, as well?”

“I was, before,” Eres answers. For a moment, she wonders whether she should tell him. Perhaps he’d think poorly of her for aiding a vampire, but… It’s better he knows of Serana early, than to find out unexpectedly later, she supposes.

Eres finishes her own bowl, and settles down to tell him a story. “Back when I first got the assignment for Windhelm, vampires had begun attacking villages and towns all over Skyrim, in broad daylight. I thought they could be connected, so I went to the Dawnguard to find out what I could…”

It takes longer than Eres plans to tell him everything that happened—of meeting Serana within the crypt, bringing her home, Serana coming to look for her back at the fort not a few weeks later, and everything that followed. Recounting it aloud makes her miss Serana fiercely.

Inigo is a good companion, a good partner. Someone Eres might even be able to call a true friend, sometime in the future. But he’s not Serana.

 _Just a few more months,_ Eres thinks. Once winter has passed, she can name a new Keeper out of the senior Vigilants who come for new assignments once the pass clears. And then she can go find Serana again.

Morning brings a brisk chill with it as wind flows from the mountain pass down into the Whiterun valley. Eres is glad to cut through the forest when they finally reach it, sometime around midday. With the trees at their back, the harsh wind is broken upon their trunks and canopies, and the air within the forest is much warmer compared to being out in the open.

It takes the better part of the day to traverse the expanse of the Whiterun forest, making their way southwest across the forested tundra. Eres could have chosen to follow the main road west instead, then followed the road south through Rorikstead and finally to Fellburg, but instead, she cuts further southward, shaving off several hours’ worth of travelling time.

The trip is largely uneventful, save for the occasional wolf or lone, brave bandit. When Eres finally does see the break in the trees ahead as the roads converge for Fellburg and Rorikstead, she could not have been happier.

“There we are,” Eres announces, pointing to it as they come upon the fork in the road. Just ahead, perhaps a quarter mile from them, Eres can see the guard towers for the road that Yosef must have put up, and guards within them. They hadn’t had guard posts this far out last time she’d come, and they look well constructed and sturdy. “That road will take us home.”

“ _Finally_ ,” Inigo sighs. “My butt is getting sore.”

Eres won’t say so aloud, but she agrees. She’s spent so often traveling by foot or carriage that she’s never quite gotten used to the wide backs of horses, or the strain they put on one’s back and legs. Her thighs will be sore for days, she’s certain.

Onward they travel, at an easy canter now that they are on the roads, rather than carefully picking through the forest. It takes well under an hour to reach the first posting—the guards glance at them as they pass, but there is no outward reaction.

Vaguely amused, Eres wonders how many of the residents of Fellburg even know who owns the estate they live and work for. She’s admittedly not met most of them personally, and she’s sure there are more now than there were before.

What greets them as they climb the hill up to Fellburg surprises her so much that she slows to look—the far side of the road has buildings, now, too, what appears to be a barracks and a small training yard, even a stable. There’s only a couple of horses there, with a stablehand hard at work, but Fellburg has a _stable_. And enough guards to require a barracks, even, at that.

“My,” Inigo says, looking around them. “This place is quite bigger than I imagined.”

“Me, too,” Eres admits. She leads them both to the stables, and together they dismount from their steeds and hand them over to one of the stableboys milling about. They seem excited just to have something to do; to have visitors at all. Eres wonders who might own the two horses there, if they’re so excited to see new people. Eres tips the boys generously, then leads Inigo across that road and into Fellburg proper.

The Khajiit trader is still there as she remembers him, lounging carelessly outside of his stall. He waves and smiles as she passes him, clearly recognizing her even from their one short interaction.

There are several newer houses besides that, lining each side of the road. And to the south, Eres sees the lake – a deck has been built around it, with several, much smaller homes, and she sees even a few vegetable gardens and smaller, personal plots for crops in front of them. If she squints just enough, she can see the expanse of fields beyond that, further southward, where much of Fellburg’s food is grown and tended.

Further to the north, there is the clay mine—she can _just_ hear the sounds of work if she pays close enough attention, but it’s not close enough to Fellburg’s center to be disruptive. Then there’s Tomlen and his smithy, just at the foot of the Keep, and the training yard opposite that, with dummies and targets now properly well-used instead of pristine and unbroken.

Several guards and other folk mill about in the Keep’s yard, wide as it is, even in the cold—the high walls surrounding it mean that much of the brisk windchill is kept from freezing them, and between the training yard and smithy, there is plenty a person might get up to in the bailey.

 _Bailey_ —for that was what it could rightfully be called, now. Fellburg had expanded so far outward from what it had been originally that the area surrounding the keep directly could be walled in, protected from the outside. The walls, currently, are still made of wood, however well-fashioned, but Eres can look at them and imagine stone, there, not unlike the Keep itself, rising high above the ground. Battlements, a proper wall to surround it…

Eres stops, mid-step, and turns to examine those walls. She doubts it may ever be _needed_ , per se, but having more security than necessary has never been bad, right? What might it cost to take those wooden walls down and replace them with a proper defensive wall? Perhaps even push out the bailey a bit further to allow for more to fit inside it, they could give Tomlen a proper home within the bailey itself, make him a quartermaster…

A hand claps so strongly on her shoulder she very nearly draws her sword when she spins to face the owner—but then she sees Yosef grinning down at her, and her startle and ire turn to joy.

“Not home even a minute and already at work, are you?” Yosef grins, and opens his arms for her when she hugs him. “I could almost see those gears turning in your head from across the yard!”

“Yosef,” Eres squeezes him a bit harder around the waist—he’s _grown_ since she last saw him, she realizes. He’s thicker there than he used to be, more muscular. She pulls back, frowning at him. He looks incredibly fit for a farmer. “Have you always been this… large?”

Yosef quirks a brow, then laughs sheepishly. “I’ve been taking up some sword lessons with the guard captain,” he admits. “After that first time you left…” he trails off, looking distant for a moment. “If we ever got attacked again, I wanted to make sure I could defend myself. This place.” He shrugs. “I don’t have time for it most days, but when I do, I do what I can.”

“It’s working for you,” she admits, genuinely impressed. Yosef has come a long way from the lanky, half-starved farmboy she’d met a year ago. “You look well.”

“I am happily married,” Yosef responds, and she throws her hand into his stomach. “ _Oof_ , okay—bad joke.”

“Bad joke,” Eres agrees. “Yosef,” she gestures to Inigo, who had been waiting impressively quiet beside her. “This is a friend of mine, Inigo.”

“Oh,” Yosef looks at him, blinking. He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Inigo. Will you be opening a store here as well? We can open some space for you somewhere, I’m sure—”

“He’s not part of a caravan, Yosef,” Eres pinches the bridge of her nose, but she can’t help but laugh a little. “Not all Khajiit are merchants.”

“Oh.” Yosef at least has the decency to flush, embarrassed. “I am very sorry for assuming, then.”

“You are forgiven,” Inigo replies, looking amused himself. “Inigo knows many of his kind here are merchants. But I am just a friend. Her friend,” he points to Eres, and smiles. “And now yours. Inigo is glad to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Yosef’s smile returns, his temporary embarrassment forgotten for the moment. “How about we get inside? Johanna’s with the kids upstairs. And dinner will be ready before long, I’m sure.”

“Tell me she isn’t cooking for all these people by herself.”

Yosef scoffs. “Of course not—we have staff for that, now.” Eres’ brows raise as she follows him inside. “I did say we were doing well last I sent a letter to you, remember? We expanded a bit into the Keep.”

“Oh?” When Eres steps inside, she does notice that the halls seem much cleaner when she was last there—and much more well-lit. Torch sconces have been lit along the hallways, filling them with light. More interestingly, Eres sees more than one unfamiliar face wandering the Keep’s interiors—several guards, young teenagers, more than one woman in the plain dresses of a houseservant. She doesn't remember to mention that she hadn't even read his letters recently, too distracted by the sight of just how much has changed since she was last here. It seems almost too much of a difference for it to have only been a few months. “I hope you’re paying them well to manage all this.”

“Very well,” Yosef affirms. “It’s become a bit of a sought after position, actually, with the women. It helps them be close to their children, too.”

Eres looks at him with confusion as he stops at a nondescript door and cracks it open.

Eres remembers this area—it had been a study, at one point. Not _her_ study—hers was on the other side of the keep, and likely still remained untouched, but there had been a second one that had likely once doubled as a music room. An old harp had collected dust in there, and when Eres had reopened the keep initially, she’d never seen the point in bothering to clean the room out.

Now, though, the room is tidy, the rugs washed and vibrant, the walls scrubbed and cleaned of all dust and grime, the chandeliers cheerfully lit above. The harp is still where Eres remembers it, tucked on one side of the room near several lounging chairs, and even it shines with new life.

But in the center of the room, there is a pedestal at which a stern-looking woman stands, a book in one hand as she paces from one side of the room to the next, reading a passage from it aloud. Several children sit in little hand-crafted desks just in front of her, numbering at least a dozen of varying ages from as young as seven to early teens.

One of them is Julia, dressed prettily in a finely-sewn dress and stay, hair braided immaculately. She’s taller than Eres remembers, though not by an incredible amount, and her face has thinned out a bit more.

Horrifyingly, she’s grown into more of a woman’s figure.

“Gods, how old is she now?”

Yosef chuckles quietly, closing the door before the kids can notice them. “Going on fourteen this year, would you believe it?”

Eres snaps to look at him, surprised. “That old?”

“She was small for her age.” Yosef lets out a sigh that’s a tad too dramatic. “She’s growing too quickly now. She’s going to start liking _boys_ now,” he utters, shuddering at the thought.

“Or girls,” Eres muses. He looks at her, and she shrugs. “It’s possible. Would that be a problem for you?”

“I might prefer it,” Yosef says, sounding uncharacteristically dry. “At least that way I wouldn’t have to worry of her ending up with child before she’s ready for it.”

Eres considers that. “Don’t the women typically bear children quite young here?”

“They do,” Yosef admits, but he turns to look at her, his face solemn. “But you gave us the opportunity to have a better life here. And that means my girl doesn’t have to grow up any faster than she wants to. If she wants to get married in a couple years,” he shrugs, “I’ll have to make sure that boy—or girl—is good for her, of course, but I’d let her. But if she wants to wait a little longer…” he smiles, then. “I’d be glad to still have her around before her future spouse comes and takes her away. She deserves to have a bit more time as a kid than as a mother.”

Eres warms to hear it, warms to Yosef in general. Not for the first time, Eres is so grateful to have met a man like him—and to have been able to help him.

“You really are just the best boy, Yosef.” She pats him on his arm, smiling up at him.

“Married,” he points at himself, grinning.

“Prefers women,” she responds, pointing at her own self. “Though for a man, I could do worse.”

Yosef feigns offense. “I’ll tell Johanna.”

Eres shrugs. “Tell her, then,” she says. “Let’s see if I can’t steal your wife from you.”

“Now, now,” Johanna says, poking her head out of a door as if summoned. “If you’re going to fight over me, at least do it where I can hear you.”

Johanna doesn’t even have the chance to greet Eres before a tiny little form darts past her legs and latches onto Eres’ own with an excited shout. Eres kneels to allow the little boy to hug her, knowing logically that it could only be Neil—but a little saddened that she only barely recognizes him. He had grown quite a bit from when last she saw him, and his blonde hair had darkened from platinum blonde to a darker, dirtier blonde that was reminiscent of Yosef himself.

“I hope you plan to stay a while this time,” Johanna says to Eres, when she finally straightens with Neil tucked to her hip, as the boy would accept nothing less. “Julia would love to see you. I think she’s been through just about every book in your study by now.”

Eres raises her brows at that, both a little impressed and a bit worried. “All of them? I have spell tomes in there.” Behind her, Inigo hisses sympathetically.

“Yes,” Johanna says tiredly, “ _all_ of them. She set fire to one of the curtains just last week.”

“I wasn’t aware you had the gift in your family,” Eres muses, perhaps not as surprised as she should be by a small child setting fire to something. If her own childhood was any indicator, young mages tended to have such accidents all the time until they were properly trained to handle the magic within them.

“Neither were we,” Yosef deadpans. “Do you know how expensive a magic tutor is? Or even the College?” He shakes his head miserably. “Running Fellburg is bad enough without having to worry after a teenager experimenting with magic.”

Eres remembers Mirabelle, suddenly. Mirabelle, who’d—well. Who’d pissed her off royally when last they spoke, but had otherwise been mostly forthcoming, and seemed…alright, as a person. She _had_ volunteered to fight alongside them in a battle that had nothing to do with her, after all.

“I may know someone at the College,” Eres says slowly. “But Julia is still a bit young for it. How much do we need to hire this tutor? I’ve some coin of my own I can add in.”

“Oh, no,” Johanna waves her off. “It’s not that we don’t have enough, here—we do have the savings, but…”

Yosef scratches his head, mouth pursing. “Not sure I want her to get tied up in all that. Magework’s dangerous.”

“It’s better she does it here, where she’s safe, than to have her go off experimenting on her own,” Eres points out. “Which she has already been doing, based on what you’ve told me.”

Johanna’s lips press tightly together. Yosef sighs, looking away. Eres cannot blame them, not really. The two of them are from non-magic families, the type of people who might have spent their entire lives in the same village, never leaving, had it not been for the Rebellion forcing them out. Having a daughter to show magical ability had probably never been on their list of expectations for their lives.

“I’ll have a sit down with Julia myself,” Eres offers. She sets Neil down as he gets antsy, bored with the adults talking, and watches him run back into the room to play with a number of wood-carved toys scattered on the rugs. A few of them appear to be little soldier figurines, and he mimes a grand battle between them, making little sound effects with his mouth.

Eres turns her eyes back to Yosef and Johanna, who look at her expectantly. “I won’t tell her to stop using magic. That won’t get us anywhere. But I can help you with arranging for a proper tutor to teach her finer control.” Neither of them look thrilled at the prospect. “I was hardly older than Neil when I started,” she explains. “She’s behind, and that lack of control is going to get her in trouble. Magic is tied to emotion, and she’s a teenager.”

Yosef suddenly nods, expression solemn. “I get it,” he says quickly. To Johanna, he says quietly, “I told you that wasn’t a coincidence.”

Johanna rolls her eyes, even when Eres looks at her for answers. “Julia had…a bit of a scolding a couple of months ago. One of the paintings on the wall suddenly fell off—”

“ _Flew_ off, more like,” Yosef interjects. “Those paintings are hard to get off even when you mean to move them. I knew there was no way it had just happened.”

“Telekinesis _is_ a classic sign of a developing gift,” Eres confirms. “It’s also the most likely type of magic to be triggered inadvertently by emotion, next to elemental. I don’t suppose this fire was caused by something similar?”

Yosef waved his hand. “No, thankfully. She told me she was trying to light a candle with her finger and it exploded.”

Eres almost snorts. Inigo actually does. She manages not to sound too amused, at least for their sake. “You should have hired a tutor months ago.”

“Well, the savings…” Johanna trails off, wringing her hands. “We take only enough to maintain the estate, as agreed upon…”

“The ledger?” Eres prompts, and Johanna perks up, and beckons her to follow. From a desk within Johanna’s room, the woman produces it, opens it to a page about halfway through its binding, and points at the last number that had been scrawled there.

Inigo, leaning over Eres’ shoulders, whistles appreciatively. “That is a lot of gold.”

“With the war on,” Johanna explains, “the iron mine has been quite profitable. We’ve made a deal with Rorikstead to provide their smithy with some of our excess—apparently they’ve been tasked with supplying the Imperials.”

Eres frowns. “Since when was Rorikstead under Empire control? Has it stopped changing hands every two days?”

“Finally, yes,” Yosef mutters. “About two months ago, one of the Imperial officers’ regiments came through. Wiped the rebels clean out, and instead of just leaving a few guards, they garrisoned the place like a fortress. Even the rebels aren’t stupid enough to bother trying to attack them anymore.”

Huh. Eres blinks. She’s apparently missed more than she thought. “And Falkreath?”

“Still Rebels, last I heard.” Yosef shrugs. “We don’t get much business from there. We just send our taxes his way and hope he leaves us alone. We heard another village to the south got raided by bandits after they couldn’t afford their taxes last year.”

“Sadly not surprising.” Eres sighs. “Is the tax rate at least fair?”

“A bit higher than we’d like, but,” Johanna shrugs. “We have enough that it doesn’t cripple us.”

Eres’ eyes narrow. “I sense a ‘but’ in there somewhere.”

“But,” Yosef says hesitantly, “you may want to visit the Jarl when you’ve got the chance. Fellburg’s grown quite a bit since you were last here. He’s going to cause a stink if it expands much more into his territory.”

“It’s _my_ land,” Eres mutters.

“It’s his Hold,” Yosef shrugs. “He sent a letter not long ago asking to meet with you, but we didn’t know where you’d be. We sent one back saying we’d let you know when you returned.”

“I ought to see about notarizing the two of you as stewards so you don’t have to come to me about these things.”

Eres does hate the idea of going to that man. She’s never liked him. She’s also certain whatever ‘deal’ he has in mind regarding Fellburg involves a considerable amount of extortion. She’ll be glad when the Imperials unseat him. 

“There’s also quite a few people who’d like to petition you,” Yosef adds, and Eres stares at him.

“Petition me? This is a village, not a barony.”

“A what?” Yosef asks, just as Johanna corrects: “Town, actually, by now.”

“Regardless,” Yosef says, shaking his head, “I don’t know what a barony is,” and he wouldn’t—such things were only a factor in the Empire, and even then they were rather outdated, “but _you’re_ the one controlling these lands, not the Jarl. When people have a special concern, it has to be addressed by you. We handle the smaller things, of course, but…”

“There have been a few unique situations.”

Eres lets out a long sigh. She should have expected it, really, but of course her trip home to Fellburg wouldn’t be completely without work.

“Well then,” she says, “let the people know I will be in—what, audience?” She wonders aloud, not even able to remember the proper term for it, “While I’m here. If they’ve a concern that must be brought to my attention, they may do so.”

Yosef and Johanna at least, look relieved. In that moment, Eres feels a bit guilty. Though she’d done it for the sake of funding the estate at first, it hadn’t been fair for her to leave such responsibility in the hands of two people who had never been brought up to manage such a large homestead, let alone an entire estate.

“It seems you’ve done well without me, besides,” Eres says then, wanting them to not look at her so gratefully. “Was that a classroom, downstairs?”

Johanna’s eyes light up, her lips curling into an excited smile. Yosef, beside her, takes it in, smiling himself—at her, rather than at Eres. He is a man in love, and it is plain for anyone to see it.

“Oh, yes!” Johanna exclaims excitedly, and tugs Eres along by the hand. “There are quite a few children now in Fellburg, and I thought, while their parents are busy all day with work, it would be good to have them have something productive to do rather than causing trouble around the farms…”

Johanna spins into a tale of how she’d found the stern woman—a sister of one of the married couples who had moved in a few months prior, who had apparently once taught for noble children and grown tired of their snobbery, said something uncouth, and been fired shortly after—and the two of them together had concocted their plan to create a sort of public tutoring class during the early morning until the afternoon. After that, many of the girls went to work in the storehouse or laundry—by _choice_ , Johanna made certain to say—and many of the boys took defense classes by an older guard captain who was blind in one eye and, while a terrible guard, apparently quite good with children. Yosef, too, apparently, took sword lessons from the same man, and was insistent that the man’s missing eye did nothing to weaken his swordplay.

And once a week, Johanna had even convinced some of the prissier girls to take one lesson in defense as well. On that same day, the boys would trade them for their work—so that they could learn to appreciate both sides, Johanna tells her.

The tutoring lesson ends just as Eres and Johanna reach the room, and she is pleasantly surprised that, even as the kids spill out into the hall, they each stop to greet Johanna respectfully, bowing their heads or dipping into short, unpracticed curtsies—taught by the rectoress, no doubt.

“Your ladyship,” says one of the boys – an older one, with a shock of dark, messy hair. It takes Eres a second to place him.

“Tomas,” she smiles, and grasps his forearm briefly. She ignores the redness on his cheeks when she does, as much to save herself the embarrassment as him. “It’s good to see you.”

“You as well, My Lady,” he says, and ducks his head. “I’m honored you remember me.”

“Your father leaves quite the impression.” Eres muses, and she can see Tomlen in this boy, young as he is. They have the same hardset, square jaw—when Tomas is older and a bit broader, she’s certain he will be quite handsome. “You’re attending classes as well?”

She notices Julia standing nearby, waiting patiently—or, appearing to wait patiently, with her hands clasped demurely in front of her waist, but a brimming excitement in her eyes. Eres smiles at her briefly, just to let her know she’s noticed her.

“Yes, m’lady,” Tomas nods again. “Da says I oughta—”

“Ought _to_ ,” Julia corrects.

“Ought _to_ ,” Tomas continues, “have more under my belt than just leatherworking. He says, if I’m good with books, maybe I can get one of those learned jobs.”

“ _Educated_ jobs,” Julia corrects again, and Tomas looks like he might have rolled his eyes, were it not for present company. From the look Julia gives him as she approaches, she’s well aware of that. “Eres,” she says, addressing her casually as if to make a particular point, “I’m so happy to see you again!” She blinks, looks Eres up and down, and her brow furrows a bit. “Did you get shorter?”

Eres scowls at the girl. “No, you got taller.” And she’s not happy about it. Julia is _fourteen_. How is it she’s almost as tall as Eres already? “Stop growing.”

Johanna chuckles beside her, and beckons quickly to Tomas. “Come, Tomas. Captain Jorik is waiting for us, I’m sure.”

“Jorik wants my head,” Tomas moans, but he follows obediently. “Will you be training with us today, mum?”

“I might just pick up a sword or two,” Eres hears Johanna’s voice joke lightly as the two of them fade down the hall, toward the doors that will lead out into the bailey.

Eres, in their wake, turns to Julia, and raises a singular brow, “I heard you set my curtains on fire,” she says, and smirks at her.

Julia _grins_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eres takes one (1) break a year.


	5. High Hrothgar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 5/23/20: Corrected a scene with Master Borri where he speaks to Eres/Inigo. Aside from Arngeir, none of the Greybeards speak as "their Voices are too powerful for mortals, even a whisper could kill". I wrote this section from memory so I totally forgot that was a thing. It's corrected now.

ACT III  
CHAPTER V  
HIGH HROTHGAR

Eres finds Julia a willing, if a bit overeager, student. There is little Eres can teach her, being so poor with elemental magic herself while it seems to come naturally for Julia, and the girl _especially_ hates runes.

“How do you even know which perimeter to use for which rune?” Julia grumbles over her paper, drawing a shaky circle around the rune Eres had instructed her to practice. Her hands are coated with charcoal dust, and there’s even a bit of it on her chin where she keeps cupping her hand to think, squinting down at the parchment on her desk. “This one…” Her brow wrinkles, and she huffs. “I’m going to enjoy burning you when the time comes,” she promises, pointing down at the parchment with her charcoal as if it might be more cooperative for the threat.

Eres leans over her shoulder to look, and grins. “Were that rune active, you’d be shivering in your boots right about now.”

It’s a very simple trap rune—elementary, really. A bit more advanced than the kind Eres had learned to begin with, but Julia was quite a bit older than Eres had been, and much more coordinated. The rune, if placed and then triggered, would burst with a blast of ice magic, coating the victim and freezing them to the spot for a brief period of time, usually determined by the strength of the soul gem used to draw it.

Of course, with a young child just learning to draw them, Eres is not quite foolhardy enough to have Julia messing with active runes.

Eres remembers her own childhood, having a bit too much freedom and access. She’d caught unlucky servants _twice_ with that rune as a child—a modified version that her tutor had taught her, much less potent, but just as annoying. The soul gems had been kept in a safe after that, instead of the storeroom. Eres had been eight, and any time her father left the estate on one of his trips, Eres would spend a bit too much of her time enjoying what little freedom she gained in his absence. 

“Your tutor should arrive later this week,” Eres promises her, patting her shoulder lightly. “You won’t have me boring you after that.”

“You’re not boring me,” Julia argues, but the sentiment doesn’t quite reach her eyes. Eres grins at her, and the girl flushes lightly. “I just don’t like runes,” she mumbles, and shoves her paper away. “I don’t why you like them.”

“Your feet.”

Julia stares at her. “My what?”

Eres points. Julia looks down—her feet are clothed in just stockings upon the stone floor of Eres’ study, not boots or shoes. “Your feet. Are they cold?”

“No.” Julia’s brow furrows. She places her hands on her hips, and for a second, she looks just like her mother—only, quite a bit smaller, and not quite as fierce. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Eres smiles at her. “Didn’t you ever wonder why the floor is always warm?” Julia frowns. “Runes,” Eres explains. “You can’t see them, but they keep the floors warm. And the air, too. You’d freeze without them. They’re useful.” But she smirks at her. “Even if they _are_ a bit boring, compared to setting things on fire, perhaps.”

Julia flushes further. “That was _one time_ ,” she protests. “I’ve not done it again since!”

Eres hums. “And I suppose the singe marks on your sleeves are just coincidence, of course.”

“I—I got too close to the oven,” Julia lies, poorly. Eres raises a brow at her, but Julia refuses to confess.

“Be careful,” Eres tells her. She feigns a dramatic sigh. “At least the Keep is made of stone, I suppose. You won’t burn the whole house down if you mess up—”

“I’m not going to burn _anything_ down! You _said_ ,” Julia says huffily, “that my tutor would be here soon. They’ll show me how to do proper magic.”

“Runes are proper magic, too,” Eres mutters, a little offended despite herself. “But yes, she’s like to teach you more practical things, if you’ve the talent for it. Mirabelle swears by h—”

A loud, thunderous boom roars in the air around them, and Eres freezes in place, listening. It sounds like thunder, rolling above in the sky, muffled by the stone walls of the castle.

“Odd,” Eres murmurs, when it fades, looking out one of her study’s windows. The sky is clear, and sunny. It’s not even snowing.

Julia, though, seems unconcerned. “The Greybeards,” she says simply, shrugging. Eres looks at her, and Julia makes a show of rolling her eyes. “They’ve been shouting from their bloody mountain for weeks now.”

“Shouting?”

Julia frowns at her. “Don’t you know the Greybeards?”

“I’m afraid I do not,” Eres says slowly. “What are they, exactly? They caused that thunder?”

Julia grins a little. “It’s not _thunder_ , it’s a call—a summoning, Father says. For the Dragonborn.”

Eres freezes for a second time, turning away from the window in shock. “The—The Dragonborn?”

“They say one’s been named,” Julia simpers, swaying a bit in place, her dress fanning out around her. “Or chosen. With the dragons coming back, and all. Someone out there is the Dragonborn, and the Greybeards are summoning them to High Hrothgar to meet their fate.” Julia shrugs. “That’s what all the stories say, anyways. In the books. Haven’t you read them?”

When Eres shakes her head mutely, Julia gets up from her seat to skip lightly across Eres’ study to search along the bookshelves like she knows them better than Eres does. Nowadays, Eres is sure that she does. It takes the young girl only a moment to return with an old book bound with a black cover. Its only identifying symbol upon its front is that of a silver embossed, stylized dragon.

“This one,” Julia says, and hands it to her. “The Dragonborn’s coming was prophesied,” she explains, even as Eres opens the book and begins to skim through its contents, page by page. “I asked Lady Miren,” Julia murmurs, of the woman who had taken to teaching the children of Fellburg, “about the prophecy.”

Julia gestures for Eres to let her hold the book, and Eres allows her. With the practiced ease of someone who has read the book more than once, Julia thumbs to a passage near the very end.

Unlike the rest of the book, dense with historical fact and academic terminology from what Eres had seen, the page Julia flips to holds only a short passage of lines, written almost in the form of stanzas for a poem or some such thing. There are merely six lines in total, spaced widely apart so that it fills the entire page. At the top of that page, above the poem-like entry, is a title:

**THE PROPHECY OF THE DRAGONBORN**

**_When Misrule takes its place at the Eight Corners of the World_ **

**_When the Brass Tower walks and Time is Reshaped_ **

**_When the Thrice-Blessed fail and the Red Tower trembles_ **

**_When the Dragonborn Ruler Loses His Throne, and the White Tower Falls_ **

**_When the Snow Tower lies Sundered, Kingless, Bleeding_ **

**_The World-Eater wakes, and the Wheel turns upon The Last Dragonborn._ **

Between each line, several notes have been written in the spaces between them, many in an older hand, penned in careful, deliberate writing, each pointing to a particular passage and guessing at the meaning they hold. Those notes end following the third line of the prophecy, and do not reappear. The last two lines have been circled by a much hastier hand, and scrawled between in a similar manner as previous lines, only in a much less deliberate hand.

The first of the more recent notes points to the line ‘ _Sundered, Kingless, Bleeding’_ and reads only: _“Rebels?”_ The last line, “World-Eater wakes” has been circled, with only one comment: _HELGEN_ , in all large letters, underlined several times and circled for good measure.

Eres looks at Julia, and knows from the look in her eyes that it is she who wrote the last two notes.

“You think this prophecy applies now?” Eres asks her.

Julia looks at her for a moment, searchingly, like she expects that Eres might be making fun of her. When she sees that Eres is wholly serious, her expression sobers in a way that seems much too mature for a girl who is not quite fourteen.

“The ‘Snow Throne’,” the girl says, pointing, “I think that’s Skyrim. And _sundered_ —we learned that word a few months ago. It means torn apart, broken,” she says. “Like a country torn apart by war. And Kingless—Ulfric murdered the High King, with his voice, like a Dragonborn might. If you believe the stories. And bleeding, well,” Julia shrugs helplessly. “Wars are always bloody.”

“That is true,” Eres murmurs. She’s never been one to believe in fate, or prophecies in general, but she has to admit—Julia has a point. The text is rather fitting.

“And the World-Eater—his name is Alduin. There’s a book on him, too, but, Lady Miren took it from me when she saw me reading it between lessons.” Eres frowns at her, and Julia huffs, rolling her eyes. “She said I was _daydreaming_ too much. But I’m telling you, they say it was a black dragon what attacked Helgen! Who else is a black dragon? Alduin, the World-Eater!”

Eres opens her mouth to speak, but Julia rambles on, incensed.

“ _And now_ we have the Greybeards summoning a new Dragonborn up to High Hrothgar—I’m not _stupid_ , or _crazy_ , or just a _little girl_ —it _means_ something!”

“Okay, okay—” Eres calms her, closing the book before Julia can rant further. “I believe you. The…prophecy,” it sounds wrong to even say it that way, given that she’s sort of talking about herself. Maybe. “Does sound accurate, given the current state of things in Skyrim.”

Julia actually throws her hands up in the air, bellowing, “ _Thank_ you!” A bit too loudly. When she looks back at Eres, the girl looks exasperated. “ _Finally_ someone listens to me! I’m almost fourteen, you know. Everyone else still treats me like a kid!”

 _You_ are _a kid,_ Eres thinks, but doesn’t say. “Well, I’m listening,” she tells Julia instead. “In fact…” She hesitates a moment, then decides not to tell the girl outright. It’s not that she doesn’t trust Julia—it’s that she doesn’t know for sure. Maybe she was mistaken. And Serana. And Durnehviir…

Okay, it wasn’t likely they were _all_ mistaken, but she’d still like to get confirmation first before she goes around claiming she’s the Dragonborn.

She’s _Bosmer_ , for Mara’s sake. The almighty _Dragonborn_ is supposed to be a Nord. No one would believe her for even half a second even if she claimed it, and it’s not like she can do that—that shouting thing on command. She’d done it _once_ on accident and it’d felt like she’d swallowed glass for hours afterward.

Fuck.

Which means she’s going to have to go to High Hrothgar herself.

If they’re really summoning the Dragonborn, the best way to find out if it’s actually _her_ would be to make the pilgrimage herself and meet them in person. They would be able to tell just from looking at her, wouldn’t they?

Eres taps the spine of the book, when Julia looks at her expectantly, waiting. “Do you mind if I take this with me?”

Julia blinks at her, then laughs. “It’s _your_ book, Eres,” she says, still laughing. “Of course you can take it, but—where are you going?” Julia looks at her, pleadingly. “Are you leaving again? It’s only been a week…”

“I…don’t know yet.” She does. She has to. But. She has to come up with some kind of plausible excuse first, one that none of them will see through and pry too deeply into. “I just need to check in with Inigo on something, is all, and we might have to take a short trip—”

Julia’s eyes narrow. “You know who the Dragonborn is, don’t you? You meet all kinds of people up there at the Temple. You must have met them.”

“Not…exactly,” Eres says haltingly. She feels terrible for lying to her, but. “I’ll tell you—”

“You’d _better_ not say ‘when you’re older’!” Julia groans. “I’m old enough.

“When I get back,” Eres finishes, raising a brow. Julia blushes, sheepish, and settles. “I shouldn’t be gone long.”

She hugs Julia shortly, then marches right out of the room, down the long corridor, out of the Keep, out of the front gates of the snow-covered bailey—and then down the road to the Trader, who Inigo had taken up with chatting to in his downtime.

Inigo sees her coming, and stands immediately.

“Good to see you, my friend,” he greets, then makes a face. “You are looking like you have found out some bad news. Do we have another mission?”

“Something like that.” Eres tugs him away from the vendor’s stall, nodding politely at the Khajiit tending it, and pulls Inigo to a place they won’t be so easily overheard. Only once Eres is certain no one will overhear them does she thrust the book into Inigo’s hands, opened to the very page Julia had showed her.

“Read that,” Eres orders.

Inigo frowns, but he does as told, muttering to himself aloud as he reads.

“I—I do not get what this means,” Inigo admits. “What does this have to do with us?”

Shit, she’d forgotten. She’d told him about the Dawnguard and Serana, but she’d skipped over the two dragons at the lake. She sighs, running a hand down her face, and tells him _that_ story too, her voice hushed, explaining to him how she and Serana had been ambushed by the two dragons—and how she’d absorbed some kind of power from them after. How she’d managed to Shout, just the once, and had never done it again since.

“You— _You are the—”_

Eres claps a hand over his mouth before he can shout it to the entirety of Falkreath hold. “ _Shhhh_ , Inigo! I don’t know for sure yet.”

Inigo’s muffled exclamations rumble against her hand. She waits, nearly an entire minute, until she sees his ears lower a bit, his eyes not quite so bright with excitement.

“Are you going to be quiet if I let you go?” She asks, and Inigo nods vehemently, several times. Slowly, she pulls her hand away from his furry face. He mimes zipping his mouth closed, and throwing away the key.

Then he whispers, “We are going to High Hrothgar, then?” under his breath, surprisingly quiet for him.

“That is the idea, yes,” Eres confirms. “But I have to come up with something to tell the others.”

“Why not just tell them why you are going?”

“Because I’m not a Nord.”

“You are _half_ Nord,” Inigo points out.

“And I am _half_ not a Nord, which may as well be _fully_ not a Nord,” Eres explains. “I don’t _look_ like one, so therefore I’m not one—to them. They wouldn’t believe me even if I told them. They’d think I was crazy, or full of myself.” She sighs. “I’m not sure if I believe it myself, actually. So I want to go there first, find out for sure if I really am…”

For some reason, she can’t bring herself to say it aloud.

“Dragonborn?” Inigo supplies helpfully.

She nods. “Yes, that. The Greybeards have apparently been summoning m—the Dragonborn for weeks now.” She considers it, thinking back, and feels a bit nauseous. “Probably since those dragons in the Forgotten Vale—maybe they could sense it, somehow?” She wonders aloud, brow furrowing. How _could_ they know about that? It wasn’t like there’d been any witnesses aside from herself, Serana, and a non-corporeal dragon. They must have some way of being able to sense a Dragonborn’s awakening, she figures.

More worryingly, she wonders why she hadn’t heard this call before now. Had she simply been too far that it had never reached her? Or had she heard it, and simply dismissed it as thunder in the distance?

“Maybe,” Inigo says, shrugging. “I will say, I am not looking forward to those steps. My legs are going to be very upset with me.”

Eres finds herself chuckling at him. “You’re coming with me then?”

Inigo actually looks offended that she might suggest otherwise. “Of course I am! I will follow you anywhere, I have said this. And I mean it. Even if I do not like steps. When do we leave? I will pack my bags.”

“You only have one bag.”

“I will pack my bag,” Inigo amends, smiling.

“In the morning, hopefully. We’ve still got those horses—that should help us get there quickly.”

“Too bad horses cannot climb mountains.”

“Too bad, indeed.” Eres agrees, imagining how much quicker it might be if they could. “We’ll have to stable them below in Ivarstead. Be ready to go by dawn. I’d like to get there and back before winter really gets going.”

Inigo makes a show of saluting her. “As you wish,” he says, and then lowers his voice into a dramatic whisper, “ _Dragonborn_.”

She shoves him away, glaring half-heartedly when he laughs at her, and turns back to return to the Keep. It seems she has her own bag to pack. 

“How many steps did that man say there were again?” Eres asks, huffing, as the two of them crest another incline.

Beside her, Inigo groans dramatically as he reaches the top of the incline himself. “Seven thousand.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve been counting.”

Inigo straightens, his snout wrinkling. “I have only been counting how many times I have wanted death.” She raises her brows at him. “Inigo’s legs are not made for climbing mountains. This one is a cat, not a goat.”

As if to drive the point home, a goat bays obnoxiously as it trots easily past them, as at home on the steep inclines as Eres might have been on the ground below. Inigo glares at it, looking for a moment like he’s considering shooting at it out of spite. Then he tilts his head back to peer upwards.

Eres follows his gaze towards the peak high above them, and sighs. They’re still not close enough to see this temple where the Greybeards are, and it’s been hours since they’d started on the path.

“One of these days,” she mutters to herself, as she starts trekking upwards again, feeling the burn of aching muscles in her thighs. “One of these days I’m going to learn how to teleport.”

“You should have learned how earlier,” Inigo complains.

Eres cannot even summon the energy to glare at him. Not that she’s entirely sure it’s possible for her to do it, but he’s right. The amount of travelling she does back and forth across Skyrim, she should have found _something_ to make it easier. The next time she goes to the College, she’s going to stay until Mirabelle teaches her how to make one of those circles. She doesn’t care how long it takes.

It’s nearly sunset by the time that Eres crests another incline, and sees the hard angles of a stone building rising in front of them. As if her body senses that rest waits for her, the burning in her legs turns to a strange sort of weightless weakness. If she stands still much longer, she’s not certain her knees won’t just give out on her.

“I have many regrets,” Inigo says, as he follows her to the foot of the steps leading up to the temple doors. “Add this to the list.”

“This mountain?” Eres asks, bracing a hand on her knee as she climbs. She briefly considers dropping to hands and knees like a child. The idea is more attractive than it should be, considering her age.

“ _This_ ,” Inigo repeats, sweeping his hand widely around them. “All of this.” He narrows his eyes at her. “Why did you make me come with you?”

She laughs, then curses, stumbling to a stop. “Don’t make me laugh, I can’t walk.”

Inigo huffs out something that might have been a laugh behind her. Eres recovers, and after five more excruciatingly steep steps, she is on the landing at the top, the temple doors just in front of her.

The temple doors that swing open as she stands there, as if expecting her. She blinks, wonderingly, but no—there is a man there, behind the door, dressed in long, flowing dark robes, hood pulled low over his eyes, a long—grey beard hanging from his chin.

Grey beard. She’s almost tired enough to laugh.

“Dragonborn,” the man says to her, his voice as wizened as his old, withered face. His crisp, blue eyes stare at her searchingly, looking from the top of her head to her toes, then back up again. Pausing at her face. Her ears. His brows raise ever so slightly. Then, mildly, he says: “Hmm.” And just stares at her.

She frowns at him. Nearly tips over when Inigo reaches the landing next to her and stumbles into her side, unsteady on his feet. “Are you going to let us in or not?”

“That depends,” he says slowly, his eyes drifting from Eres to Inigo, and back again. “Why have you come?”

“I heard your…call?” She says haltingly, not quite sure what to call it. “That’s what they said it was.”

“Our summons,” the Greybeard says, his expression unreadable. “And why do you think it was you who were summoned by us?”

She scowls at him. “Look—can you at least let us in? It’s freezing out here. Can’t you interrogate me inside?”

The Greybeard hums again, but after a moment, he nods, and opens the door widely enough to allow both of them to slip past him, into the warm corridors beyond.

“Thank you.” The door closes behind them, torches sputtering on the walls at the draw of the wind in the hall. Eres shivers, despite the warmth, or perhaps because of it, as if her body has only just been reminded of just how cold she’d been on the climb up.

The old man, more spry than his age might suggest, moves quickly past her, leading them down the long entry hall, and into a much wider foyer that is not unlike a large rotunda – perfectly round, with a high ceiling and skylight above. On either side of the room, there are stairs leading to long, darkened hallways, and just on the other side of that round room, another set of stairs leading to a landing where another set of doors line the back wall. Lining the walls and flanking either side of each staircase are ceremonial braziers burning strongly, well maintained, bathing the room in an orange glow that might have been comforting had the building itself not felt so unwelcoming.

The man turns to face them only when Inigo and Eres have stepped within the circular room, and Eres hears footsteps in the distance, soft padded shoes against stone flooring. He stares at the two of them silently until those footsteps reach them, until several other dark-robed men file out of the two hallways on either side to arrange themselves in a semi-circle beside the first.

“So,” the first man says, “a Dragonborn appears…at this moment in the turning of the age.”

Eres isn’t quite sure whether he says this for her sake, the sake of the men surrounding him, or if it’s simply some kind of ceremonial speech. When he appears to wait idly for an answer, she hesitates.

“You can tell just by looking at me?”

“We shall see,” the man says. “Let us see if you truly are Dragonborn. Shout, and let us taste of your Voice.”

Eres scratches at the side of her jaw. “I’m not sure how,” she admits. “I’ve only done it once, and it was on instinct.”

The man appears nonplussed. He nods. “Then do so again, now. Relive that moment in your mind. Close your eyes. Envision yourself in the short moments before you first Shouted.”

It’s strange, how calming his voice is, how easy it is to listen to him, how naturally her body seems to follow his instructions. She closes her eyes even before she’s reached the decision in her mind, before she can second guess herself or feel silly about it.

In her mind’s eye, she sees the frozen lake. The seared-white of the first small dragon’s skeleton in front of her. She hears Serana’s voice, calling out to her, feels her body turn, sees the second dragon roaring toward her.

“How did you feel in that moment?” The old Greybeard’s voice is more like a murmur in the back of her mind, directing her conscious to exactly where it needs to be. “Time itself has slowed around you, in the very instant before your Voice breaks free from you. What is it you feel, deep within?”

 _Fear_. Eres knows that one. She can feel it rising up in her, seeing that dragon diving for her, feeling the heat as it opens its maw to breathe fire upon her as it had upon Durnehviir. She’d felt fear, bubbling up from her stomach. Panic. Not the slow crawl of anxiety but the heart pounding _leap_ of panic, lurching up inside her like a beast summoned from the realms of the dead, clawing frantically at her insides.

She feels buzzing, beneath her skin, a crackling that feels like mana and not at the same time, something not so forward but subtle, something simmering beneath the surface like embers; something that goes from a simmering to a roaring flame within an instant like a great bellows had breathed life into that inner fire in one big, sharp gust.

A breath. She takes a breath that feels like it crackles and boils in her lungs, in a way that’s both unpleasant and soothing all at once, in a way that makes it feel like the incessant tickle of a cough building but stronger, like something wants to claw its way out of her, scrambling for freedom. That crackling tickle travels up her chest to the back of her throat, gets lodged somewhere there when she opens her mouth and _explodes_ out all at once with a clap like thunder breaking just overhead, but somehow _inside_ of her all at once.

Eres opens her eyes. The man looks calmly back at her, hands folded in front of him. 

“Now that you remember how it feels to Shout – now it is time that you try to do so again. Shout at one of us, and let us taste of your Voice.”

Inigo, seemingly remembering what she’d told him about what had happened on the lake, wisely takes several steps backward, until he’s pressed against the wall behind her. His tail lashes anxiously behind him, eyes darting from one man to the next.

Eres looks back at all of the men, and feels doubt.

“Do not worry,” the first man says, as if he can read her mind. “You will not harm us. Go on,” he urges.

Eres takes a breath, long and slow. She tries to call that feeling up inside her, but it feels—feels like just air. There’s no crackling, no tickling, no simmering underneath. It’s just air in her lungs, as ordinary as she is.

“It may help to think of something emotional,” the man says gently, coaxingly. “Perhaps at the time, you were feeling something especially intense. Think back, and try to relive those emotions.”

Frustrated, Eres tries. But she can’t just _call_ panic into her being any more than she can control the weather. She can’t just _make_ herself feel fearful. She tries to imagine herself on the highest peak of this mountain, looking downward, but that only makes her shudder.

“Think _deeper_ ,” the man tells her. “Something closer to the heart.”

Eres thinks of Molag Bal. She tries to call up that fear inside her, but all she feels is anger. Resentment. Repulsion. She _should_ be scared of him, terrified even, but all she can feel is her hate, dark and roiling beneath the surface. But nothing like what she had felt before.

 _Think deeper_ , he’d said.

Her greatest fear isn’t heights, isn’t even Molag Bal. Eres imagines the Rebels storming Fellburg, instead, killing Yosef and Johanna and the kids, and everyone else—but she doesn’t feel fear, there, either, just crippling despair and grief for something that hasn’t even happened. And never will, if she has anything to say about it.

Eres sighs, and she hears the old man sigh with her. He steps closer to her, suddenly, and she feels a hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently.

She looks up at him, surprised to see the man looking down at her kindly from beneath his hood. For just an instant, there’s an ache there, looking at him and somehow seeing Thorondir, looking down at her in much the same way just a year ago.

“You keep your emotions so tightly guarded that you have blocked them – even from yourself,” he says, his voice lowered so as not to echo in the cavernous room they stand in. She frowns at him, brow furrowing. “You have a tendency to bury your own feelings for the sake of others. A good trait,” the man says wisely, “for a selfless hero. Not so good for someone who must be in touch with themselves to perform their duties.”

“Are you going to tell me to meditate now?” Eres might just smack him if he does.

The man chuckles. “No, though I do believe you would benefit from it in the future. Instead, I would like you to think of the worst possible thing you can. Don’t focus so much on the _name_ of the emotions you feel, but the nature. What is truly your worst fear?”

Molag Bal dragging her to his realm. The man raises a brow at her, as if he can read her thoughts. “Worse,” he instructs her. “Think of something worse.”

What _could_ be worse than that?

Her mind answers, somewhere subconsciously, even as her conscious mind rails against it, pushing back, and the man squeezes her arm again. “Let it come,” he says.

Flashes of imagery. She wants to reel back from it, to push it down, to not face it—but he squeezes, and she stops pushing, and the images come anyways, and then the cycle begins all over again, over and over, fighting against her instinct to repress the things she can’t handle just yet, maybe can’t handle ever—

Molag Bal. Molag Bal wants her. He’s never been shy about using someone’s loved ones against them, like he had with Jacob.

Eres sees Serana in her mind, back at Helgen, just a few steps ahead of her and smiling as she turns to face her. Smirking as she looks down at Eres on the battlements of Fort Dawnguard, wicked amusement in her eyes. She feels Serana’s arms around her as they’d hugged goodbye on the shore of the island, just before Eres left her behind.

Suddenly, she’s sitting on her horse again, turning back to look across the water, seeing Serana’s dark-cloaked figure as she climbs the bridge back into her family home.

But there’s another dark figure there, now, leaning idly on the railing of the bridge, watching as Serana passes him. The figure straightens. Dark armor, as black as the night itself. A sharp horn jutting from either side of his helmet and coming together like a pincered claw. She can feel his satisfaction when he looks back at her, at Eres. And then he turns, following at Serana’s heels.

A hand grips at her, fingers digging _hard_ into her shoulder just as that primal fear surges up from within her.

 _“Seize it_ ,” the man says, and Eres does, if only because she might choke on it otherwise, if only because it feels it might strangle her until she suffocates under the weight of it.

She scarcely manages a breath past the lump in her throat, and even when it bursts from her it feels wobbly and shaky, as uncertain as she feels on the inside. One of the men across from her stumbles, anyway, caught off guard, and Eres tastes bile.

“Good,” the man says, patting her on the shoulder.

The fear still chokes at her, but the anger—the fury in her burns hotter. She draws from it again, and shouts at _him_ next, and it feels _right_ , somehow, deep in her chest and in her throat. Her lungs ache something fierce, somewhere under all the satisfaction she feels from watching him nearly trip over his own feet.

The man coughs, straightens. He brushes his hands down his robes as if to straighten them.

“Yes, well,” he says, clearing his throat. “It appears you are indeed Dragonborn. Welcome to High Hrothgar.”

She opens her mouth—now that she has it, part of her doesn’t want to lose it. The other part of her wants to shout at him until he falls apart at the seams. Why would he make her think of that? Why would he bring that to the front of her mind, knowing she’d never be able to forget it again?

“I understand you may be upset,” the man says, wisely standing several feet from her, now, interrupting her before she can do it again. “But even with years of training, it is not wise to Shout so many times in such quick succession. If you are not careful, you may do permanent damage to your body.”

She stops herself, but her hand twitches near her blade all the same.

“Do you want me to kill him?” Inigo asks.

Eres considers it, and then is horrified at herself for not dismissing it immediately. The anger fades, the white-hot heat of it retreating to a dull simmer in her veins—but the disgust and fear is still there, lingering on the edge of her consciousness.

“No,” she manages, and blinks quickly several times, until she no longer feels like she might cry. She counts to ten. She pushes it all down again.

It takes several long minutes for the flashes to stop coming. For her to stop seeing him—and her. For her to stop imagining her _worst possible outcome_ coming to life. She’d kill him herself before she let him anywhere near Serana. She didn’t know _how_ —but she’d find a way. Even if she had to die to do it.

The fear is too much for her to deal with, so she calls on her anger—her anger at the situation, at Molag Bal himself, at this stupid man for making her face it before she was ready, all of it—and she uses that anger to drown everything else out, until her mind is quiet again.

Until she can breathe again.

“That is not the most effective way of dealing with your emotions.”

“Fuck you,” she says, surprisingly with little bite. Even the swell of anger within her calms, ebbing away like the tide, and in its wake there is only bone-deep exhaustion. “I could’ve stabbed you instead, if you think that’s healthier.”

He merely raises a brow. “So young,” he comments plainly. “There is still much spirit left in you. And the strength of your Shout as an untrained Dragonborn surpasses even my greatest expectations of you.”

At that, she frowns. “I could barely do it on my own. You had to—”

“ _I_ did nothing,” he responds, almost flippantly. “That was your own power. Your own will. All I did was offer a helpful suggestion.”

 _Hypnosis, more like_ , Eres grouses internally, but doesn’t say aloud. “If that’s what you’d call helpful…”

“It worked.” He shrugs, carelessly. “I am sure you can recall that feeling at will now, can’t you?”

Eres’ frown deepens. Despite her irritation with him—he’s right. She’s certain she’ll never forget that feeling no matter how long she lives. Not that she ever wants to experience it again, but she’s certain she could.

“In time, you will gain enough control that you will no longer need to call upon such dark emotions to make use of your power.”

“Are you reading my mind?”

The man chuckles. “No—call it intuition.” She highly doubts _intuition_ could be that specific. “But we can speak more of this in the morning. You and your friend look dead on your feet. I am sure Master Borri could direct you to a couple of open rooms?”

One of the robed men steps forwards silently, bows his head, and then sweeps his arm out to gesture towards the long hall on the right. When she and Inigo go to him, he leads them up the short flight of stairs and down the long hall, past several rooms, down a second hall, and past several more, and he does not speak a word. He stops, just between the doorways of two empty rooms, and bows just slightly at the waist. Then, just as silently as he had come, he leaves them to themselves. 

Eres peers into one of the two rooms, seeing nothing but a small bed draped with furs and a storage trunk, and one lonely small table in a corner of the room with a single chair. Aside from those three simple things, the room is entirely bare and nondescript. The other room is the exact same, only a mirror image of the first.

Inigo steps into one of them, drops his bag, and flops face first on the bed. He groans. “Do not wake me,” he mumbles through the fur, and goes still. Within seconds, she hears the rumble of his sleeping purr.

Eres goes to the other room, sets down her things, and climbs into her own bed. It takes her much, much longer to fall asleep. Her dreams are haunted by images of a man in dark armor, an ever present, looming shadow behind Serana, who never sees his coming.


	6. The Way of the Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 5/23/20: Corrected the wife's name - in the mod her name is Julia, but I changed it to Helena later to avoid confusion with Yosef's daughter. Apparently never got around to fixing this chapter before lol. Sorry about that.

ACT 4  
CHAPTER VI  
THE WAY OF THE VOICE

Eres spends more time with the Greybeards than she might have hoped to.

Dragonborn or not, though Eres’ talent for the _Thu’um_ is natural, and she learns more quickly than any other student they’ve claimed to have, there is just so _much_ she doesn’t know about being Dragonborn. What it all means, where it comes from, what is expected of her in the future. The prophecies about Alduin the World-Eater, and the dragon that had attacked Helgen.

By the fifth day at High Hrothgar, Eres feels like her voice might be permanently hoarse from all the shouting she’s practiced at their behest, but she can’t deny their methods. She can call the first shout to her— _Fus_ —almost without trying, now, and she’s learned to pull on the anger rather than the fear, and that makes it easier to learn the others.

The anger is easier. Arngeir, the first man who had opened the temple doors for her, warns against it. “Relying too heavily upon such negative emotions will not bode well for the future,” he’d said, in his all-knowing, wizened voice.

She’d ignored him.

She has a lot of anger, deep down. A lot of frustration, a lot of resentment. A lot of _negative_ feelings that she doesn’t normally let out, that she doesn’t normally even put a name to. She has no shortage of things to be angry about.

Her mother, abandoning her when she was a child. Leaving her with that poor excuse for a father. Her father himself, for somehow managing to be both neglectful and overbearing all at once, ignoring her one moment and shouting at her the next. For Altano, for dragging her into the Vigilants, getting her wrapped up with a god she can’t hope to fight. For Molag Bal himself, for so many reasons she can’t bother to think of them all. Even for Harkon and Valerica, for using their daughter as a pawn, for locking her away for so long, for never caring what _Serana_ had wanted. For giving her to _him_ , against her will—because she was their daughter, and she’d had no choice. For the gods, even, or Akatosh—or Auri-El, whatever the hell one wanted to call him—for choosing _her_ to be Dragonborn, and not someone else with less on their plate than she had.

Most of all, she pulls the anger she feels towards herself, because as angry as she is at so many people, she’s just as angry with herself. She should’ve followed her mother, somehow. Stood up to her father, held her ground even when he shouted her down, not made herself meek just to appease him, not let him die thinking he was still infallible. Should’ve seen what Altano was long before the massacre at the Temple. Should’ve pulled Valerica aside, cursed her for the things even Serana wouldn’t say to her.

Should’ve told Serana just how much she meant to her, long before Molag Bal had set his sights on her. Before she’d managed to piss him off and catch his interest. His ire.

Before she’d gone and _stabbed a fucking god_. Because that was smart.

He’d never leave her alone, now. She knows it. Facis had warned her he wouldn’t take it lightly, her freeing Lamae the way she had.

If he hadn’t wanted her to free Lamae, he shouldn’t have sent her against her, Eres thinks, and she stabs the stake into the slate a bit harder than necessary. A chunk of slate flies off and hits her in the cheek, sharp enough that she feels a little spark of pain as it slices into her skin. She ignores it, and drags the stake downwards into the first of her marks.

What the hell had his goal been, in that place? If he was so pissed at her that she’d given Lamae her final rest, why did he risk Lamae in the first place, knowing she might beat her? Had he underestimated Eres that much, and never expected her to win? Had her stabbing him the way she had finally ended his little game, and he’d decided he was done with her and just wanted her dead?

Or was there something else she’s missing, and Lamae’s freedom had only been meant to feel like a temporary victory? What else might Molag Bal be sending against her next? How else might he choose to tempt her?

The image of him smirking at her as he turns to follow Serana into the castle flashes in her mind again, and she slams the stake so hard into the slate tablet that her hand feels a little numb, after, a tingle racing up from her wrist to her elbow. Inigo gives her a concerned look over his own tablet.

Scowling, Eres tosses the tablet and stake to the side.

“This is stupid. I already know _Dovahzul_.” She shudders, hearing Inigo’s claws rake against the slate across the room. When she looks at him, he silently turns it over in his hands and holds it up to face her.

She snorts. “You’re stupid.”

He smiles. “It made you laugh, so Inigo is fine being stupid.” He turns the slate back over in his hands, using the stake this time to cross out the curse word he’d managed to write in the dragon’s alphabet. _Dovahzul_ didn’t have curses, that Eres knew of, but Inigo had taken to using the letters to build Alessian words he knew of. Most of which were highly inappropriate.

“You have been angry these past few days,” Inigo says quietly. “Inigo thinks this temple is not good for you.”

Eres sighs, sinking back into her seat. The walls feel like they’re closing in on her. “I hate this place,” she mutters. “Makes me think too much.”

“Oh, the horror,” Inigo muses, chuckling to himself.

She favors him with a wry look. “You’d be surprised what _horrors_ my brain can come up with when it has nothing else to do.”

“Is that why you always stay so busy?” Inigo asks. He sets the tablet down at last, seemingly bored with it for the moment. “Is it because you want to make sure you have no time to think?”

Eres frowns. Her brow creases. She stares hard at the wall, cogs in her mind turning. _Was_ that the reason why? Fuck if she knew, at this point.

“I don’t know. But this is driving me crazy.” She stands, shrugs off the dark robes the Greybeard had given her to wear over her clothes, and huffs. “I’m supposed to be relaxing, and here I am in this godforsaken—”

“Hello.” Arngeir says, at the door. Eres’ mouth clicks shut. He actually looks a little amused. She hates it. “Was ‘Temple’ the word you were searching for?”

Inigo hisses behind her, muttering, “Someone’s in _trouble_ ,” in a sing-song voice beneath his breath.

“Shut up,” she mutters to him. To Arngeir, she says, “I’m not used to being stuck in one place for so long. With so little to do,” she adds, remembering the Temple of Stendarr, and how long she’d spent within its walls, managing the goings and comings of Vigilants all over the country. Back then, she’d had so much to do that venturing out had never crossed her mind.

Here, at High Hrothgar, she spends a few hours practicing with the Greybeards, which is interesting enough most of the time despite the damage it does to her throat, but then they have her meditate. Sitting still for hours at a time. And then they make her write on the slates, practicing the language of dragons like she doesn’t already understand it.

“It appears, perhaps, that our methods of teaching are not quite what you’d imagined.” Arngeir muses idly, his eyes shifting to catch upon the slate tablet and stake she’d tossed haphazardly to the ground. “If you’ve so much confidence in your ability as Dragonborn, then perhaps it’s time we see just how far you’ve come.”

Only her better manners keeps her from throwing her hands in the air. “ _Finally_ ,” she says. “Does this mean I’ll be able to leave after?”

“After?” Arngeir chuckles. “ _Leaving_ is exactly how we shall test your mettle. It is time for your final trial.”

“Which is?”

“Retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder, from his ancient resting place within the ruins of Ustengrav. Remain true to the Way of the Voice, and you may return. If not…” He shrugs, as though it’s not her life he’s talking about. “I have faith in you.”

Eres considers it.

Then, “No.”

Arngeir blinks. He stares at her. “…No?”

She stares back. “No,” she says again. The word tastes foreign on her tongue. It feels as though she’s never actually said it before out loud. “I’m not your errand boy. Nor am I some dog you can train to fetch whenever you feel like it. Did it ever occur to you I have other responsibilities?”

His brows lower. “Did it ever occur to _you_ that none of those responsibilities compare to that of those you hold as Dragonborn? The very fate of the world hangs in the balance.”

“You’ve mentioned that,” Eres tells him, reminded sorely of the second day she’d spent here in the temple – where Arngeir had dumped a pile of scrolls in front of her and told her, in no uncertain terms, that she could not get up until she’d read them all. All of which had focused on this prophecy, and Alduin.

She’d read them, and she still can’t quite bring herself to care.

“If that dragon that attacked Helgen really _was_ Alduin,” she allows, “no one has seen head or tail of him since. No reports of any attacks anywhere, no burned down villages, no trails of destruction – nothing. You say the dragons are returning, but what proof do you have sitting in this temple all day? When’s the last time any of you even so much as left it?”

“Did you not tell us that the very reason you discovered you were Dragonborn in the first place was due to fighting not one, but _two_ Dragons on your own?”

She sighs. “That happened in a place that was already strange, over a frozen lake. Perhaps those two had never really died, and had just been hibernating underneath. Perhaps there just hadn’t been anyone to wake them up until we came along. That once incident isn’t proof that there’s some—dragon apocalypse on its way. If this Alduin is as bad as you claim, why hasn’t he done anything yet? The world is still here, last I checked.”

Arngeir’s expression twists. He looks at her like he very much wished anyone else could have been the Dragonborn except her. Internally, she echoes that sentiment. _She_ had never wanted this, either.

“Alduin is gathering his power, I am sure,” Arngeir says slowly. “You _must_ be prepared for what will come when he is ready. I do not think those two dragons in this, Forgotten Vale, were mere happenstance. Neither should you.”

Eres looks away from him. She doesn’t—not really. But she also doesn’t quite believe in this whole prophecy thing, either, and she’s not keen on dropping everything in her life just to become a monk’s errand girl. Why was it that these people always had somewhere dangerous they wanted her to go?

“You should not shirk your duties as Dragonborn simply because—”

“I’m not _shirking_ anything.” Eres cuts in. “I did your training. I stayed here, I learned what you had to teach me. But these dragons – there’s been no sign of them in Skyrim, not since the first attack. When they become a problem again, _then_ I’ll step up.”

“It is easier to _prevent_ a cataclysm than to circumvent one,” Arngeir points out. “Do you believe it wise simply to wait until another town has been burned to the ground? Until yet more people lose their lives to Alduin’s whims? Until there are more dragons flying about Skyrim, wreaking havoc, more than you can hope to handle?”

Eres crosses her arms. “And what purpose does me diving into an old ruin to grab some horn serve, then?” She asks him in return, eyes hard. “I don’t see how that does anything to help _circumvent a cataclysm_.” Arngeir’s lips press tightly together as he frowns back at her. “It’s just some test you want me to take to make sure I’m ready—I get it, maybe that’s your tradition. Maybe all of you did the same thing when you were my age.”

“But,” she adds, “you said it yourself. I’ve learned in days what took the lot of you years to master. What makes you think I need to go traipsing through some ruin to prove it?”

Arngeir sighs out a long breath through his nose, closing his eyes. “You are…incorrigible,” he utters quietly. “Perhaps if you were a Nord, you would show more respect for the traditions of your ancestors.”

“Yeah, well.” Eres hears a high-pitched whistling tone, faint from where she stands, emanating from the room she’d been sleeping in. The room she’d left her bag in. Inigo’s ears perk too as he straightens, searching for the source. “I’m not a Nord,” she continues, and Eres shoves the Greybeard’s loaned robe into his arms. “As you and everyone else keeps reminding me.”

Then she leaves him there, Inigo at her heels, and marches down the hallway back to the small room she’d been given.

“Inigo thinks he was jealous.” Inigo follows her to her room, leaning against the small table in the corner as she rifles through her pack for the enchanted parchment. “They are all jealous because they cannot do the Shouting the way you can.”

“Maybe,” she says absently. Her fingers close around the parchment, buried deep within her pack, and she pulls it free. It’s not the one she’d used for Yosef and Johanna back at Fellburg, but the second she’d made for Gwyneth. She closes her eyes and lets out a long sigh.

Great.

Eres gives herself a moment to lament her situation internally, but only a moment. Then she activates the message parchment with a hand, and watches as words scrawl their way across its surface.

 _‘Eres,_ writes Gwyneth, in small, delicate letters, _I regret to inform you there is a situation that requires your immediate attention at the Temple. One of our senior-most Vigilants has gone missing on an assignment. Please return with all due haste. -Gwyneth’._

“Another job?” Inigo asks from his perch, straightening eagerly. If there’s anyone who could have been more bored here than Eres had been, it was him.

“Seems like it.” Eres tucks the parchment back into her pack. She takes a moment to lean closer to the bed in the small room so that she can peer out of the small window on the far wall. The sun is still high in the sky. It’s just barely past midday. “I was hoping we could make it back home for a bit before going back to the Temple, but…” She shrugs.

“Duty calls,” Inigo shrugs, himself. “I will get my bag and meet you at the door.”

She nods at him, gathering her things about her and doing one last check to make sure she’s left nothing behind. On her way out, she runs into Arngeir in the halls, and half expects him to try stopping her.

He doesn’t.

He merely watches her leave, silent and judging. Eres passes several more of the Greybeard monks on her way out, each of them watching her with the same silent judgment written across their faces. It looks a lot like disappointment. Eres doesn’t allow herself to care about what hopes they might have placed in her—she ignores each of them entirely, sweeping past them to join Inigo at the door.

She pauses only to turn back, finding Arngeir standing in the middle of that circular room, the other monks surrounding him in much the same fashion as when she’d first met them – only now they stare at her not with expectation, but reproach.

“I’ll come back,” she says, and doesn’t even know why she says it. “When the time comes.” She doesn’t know why she feels the need to offer them an explanation, or any consolation at all. She doesn’t owe it to them, doesn’t need to. She feels obligated all the same.

Arngeir merely sighs, his shoulders dropping. “The time has already come,” is all he says to her, voice heavy with resignation.

She swallows against the foreboding it raises in her, and leaves without looking back.

The trip down from High Hrothgar takes the better part of the day, and by the time they reach Ivarstead, night has fallen. She and Inigo make their way to the inn, and spend the night within its walls. For some reason, the air feels heavier in her lungs than Eres remembers it. She dismisses it as the difference in altitude—she cannot afford to consider any other possibility.

In the morning, they retrieve their horses from the stable they’d left them in nearly a week prior, paying an exorbitant amount Eres _almost_ argues before deciding she has better things to do, and they are off to the North, taking the road northwest past Valtheim Towers, and then past the Whitewatch Tower beyond that. A couple of the guards even seem to recognize them, nodding as they pass through their patrols.

Eres pushes them until she can see Fort Dunstad in the distance, and then makes camp. The night passes surprisingly quietly, given their proximity to such a large contingent of bandits, but in the morning they pack up their things again and keep moving ever northward towards Dawnstar, then into the Stuhn Ravine, and finally, on the eve of the second day since leaving High Hrothgar, Eres sees the Temple stretching into the sky ahead of them, the great statue of Stendarr and his horn held aloft greeting her like an old friend.

A carriage sits near the stables, a fur tent in front of it, housing a singular Khajiit who mutters to himself as he plays with a set of dice in front of him. He doesn’t seem to notice either of them as they pass, though Eres certainly looks at him long enough that she imagines he must have felt her staring.

What would a Khajiit be doing all the way up here? Was it him who had reported the Vigilant missing?

Night has not quite fallen just yet, and so Eres does not feel guilty for finding Gwyneth as soon as she arrives. Gwyneth is, as always, down in the records room, a troubled look on her face as she pores over several scrolls laid open on the desk in front of her. From the look of things, she’s been there for quite some time.

“Gwyneth.”

Gwyneth jumps, yelping, and swears as her knee knocks into the underside of the desk. Eres’ eyebrows jump in surprise – she doesn’t think she’s ever actually heard Gwyneth swear before. Gwyneth looks up, sees her, and turns red. “My apologies,” she says quickly, and stands with a bit of a wobble. “I wasn’t expecting you so soon.”

“You did say ‘ _with all due haste’_ ,” Eres quotes. She steps closer to the table, picking up one of the parchments Gwyneth had been peering so closely at. From a cursory glance, all she can see is what appears to be some kind of itinerary, a list of locations with numbered days beside each of them, cataloguing a particular route that seems to end at Chorrol.

 _Chorrol?_ Eres’ brows draw together. That was in Cyrodiil. Not even simply a jump over the border, but quite _deep_ into Cyrodiil, at that. Even Hammerfell was closer than Skyrim was to it.

“Was this where that Vigilant was headed?” She asks.

“Yes,” Gwyneth smiles tightly, taking the parchment back from her.

“Why would one of ours be going that far? Don’t they have sects in Cyrodiil?”

Perhaps if she’d lived closer to the border, or out on the outskirts, she might have known the answer to that question herself. But living within the upper ring of the Imperial City meant she had been quite sheltered from the outside world. If there _had_ been Vigilants in Cyrodiil, she’d never seen them before herself.

“They do, but apparently many of them have been conscripted into the army for the war. Their keeper asked us if we could send a couple of our own to help them, and since it’s so slow here in the winter…” Gwyneth trails off, shrugging helplessly. “It’s much warmer down there in winter, after all.”

It wasn’t exactly tropical, but that was true enough. “So what’s happened with this Vigilant, then? Who was it?”

“Bartholo.” Eres shakes her head silently – she doesn’t recognize that name. It must have been one of those she hadn’t met personally. “He was sent there just a month ago,” Gwyneth continues, distracted as she digs through her pile of papers. “To investigate…”

Eres waits, patient. She catches Inigo wandering the bookshelves, whistling low to himself as he does, tail swishing lazily behind him. He doesn’t seem too concerned with whatever assignment they might be taking on – if Eres goes, so does he. That’s always seemed to be enough explanation for him.

“Aha!” Gwyneth straightens triumphantly, plucking out one of the documents in particular. “Bruiant Mansion. The man who owns it sent the request to the Vigilants there—Marcus Bruiant. I believe… ah, yes—here.” Gwyneth stands to show the document to Eres, pointing at a particular section of the letter. “It says he believed his home had fallen to some kind of curse, or haunting. He had tried to cleanse the home himself, but it seemed to be getting worse—several unexplained deaths, including that of his wife, he claimed his child’s personality changed suddenly…”

Eres takes the letter from her, skimming over it as Gwyneth continues to give her what information she knows of the situation.

“Marcus Bruiant is the owner of the mansion—he bred dogs for the Imperials, and had a seat on the council.” Eres doesn’t recognize his name, but it wasn’t as though she might have met him. “He has a son, Julius, and also had a wife, Helena—but she passed away last year. Her body was found near Lake Ilinalta, burned almost beyond recognition.”

Eres looks up at her, brows raising. “Burned?” 

Gwyneth nods. “There are a few more documents I can give you to review on your way there. But I don’t think there are that many more details regarding Helena’s death. I’m not sure they ever found out what happened to her.”

“These incidents,” Eres starts, “did they start happening after Helena’s death?”

“Here,” Gwyneth hands her several more documents, all in a neat stack. “I’ve read over them myself,” she admits, “but I don’t think I could explain it as well as they can. The ride to Chorrol will be a long one.”

“At least I’ll have something to read, I suppose.” Eres sighs. “That Khajiit out there, is that the carriage bound for Chorrol?”

Gwyneth nods. “He was also the one to take Bartholo there. When Bartholo hadn’t returned to report with the Vigilants in Chorrol, they sent him back with a request for aid – and Bartholo’s missing report.”

“Do they believe he’s still alive?”

Gwyneth’s mouth twists, and her eyes look pained. “I’m not sure,” she admits quietly. “They said they haven’t sent anyone else into the mansion since Bartholo hadn’t returned. I suppose, since it’s one of ours…”

“They decided to leave it to us to figure out, rather than risking their own.” Eres isn’t necessarily happy about it, but she can’t say that she might not have done the same, especially with how shorthanded the Vigilants were here. If Chorrol’s branch was anything like her own, she could sympathize with the decision, as much as she doesn’t like it on a personal level.

“A mansion,” Inigo says, appearing over her left shoulder. “We are going to a mansion?” He seems oddly excited about it. “Inigo has not been to Chorrol—this is exciting!”

“A man could be dead,” she deadpans at him.

He deflates—slightly. “Well, men are always dying. But travelling to different countries to fight back the legions of evil—that is exciting, no? This one thinks so, at least. Besides,” he shrugs helplessly, “maybe he is not dead. Maybe we find him, and bring him home.”

Eres isn’t naïve enough to put any stock in hoping for that great an outcome. She’s almost certain Bartholo is dead, if he hasn’t been heard from.

“We’ll leave now,” she tells Gwyneth. “If any Vigilants return while I’m away, keep them here—especially the senior ones.” Gwyneth’s brow furrows in confusion. “There’s something I need to speak with everyone about when I return.”

“Oh.” Gwyneth still looks a bit suspicious, but she nods. “I’ll do what I can, but they might not listen to the likes of me.”

“Grab my horn from my room. Just say you’re speaking with my authority.” Eres isn’t actually sure if it works that way, but it’s worth a shot. She’s _tired_ of being a Vigilant. This _will_ be her last mission, one way or another. She’ll make certain of it. As long as she can make sure Gwyneth won’t be stuck holding the bag, so to speak, she’s going to resign as soon as she returns.

“And send a letter to Fellburg for me, would you? Let them know where I’ve gone, and that I should return soon.”

Gwyneth hesitates, mouth twisting uncertainly. “…What if you _don’t_ return?”

“Don’t be silly, Gwyn.” Eres reaches out to her all the same, squeezes her arm at the elbow reassuringly, and gives her a little smile to raise her spirits. “I’m sure there’s nothing in this mansion I won’t be able to handle.”

Gwyneth still looks uncertain, but she slowly moves to dip her head in a nod. She looks at Inigo then, questioningly. “Are you going with her?”

“Of course I am,” Inigo says cheerfully. “Where else would Inigo be going?” Then, smiling warmly, he leans down as if to whisper conspiratorially. “Do not worry. Inigo will make sure she comes back. That is a promise.” When Gwyneth still doesn’t smile, Inigo leans back, puffs out his chest, and fists his hand against his chest in an odd, proud salute. “This one _never_ breaks a promise.”

Finally, Gwyneth smiles at him. “I will hold you to it, then,” she says, and dips into a mock curtsy herself. “ _Sir_ Inigo.”

“You flatter me,” he titters, almost girlish.

Eres snorts, rolling her eyes, but she’s glad—Gwyneth seems lighter, now, not quite as consumed with her worry. Inigo has a way of disarming people like that, using his cheer and silliness to bring up the spirits of those around him. It was one of a swiftly growing list of reasons she likes having him around.

“Come on, _Sir Knight_ ,” she drawls, heading for the stairs. “We have a mission to get to.”

“As My Lady commands,” Inigo returns easily, and she hears him padding up the stairs behind her.

A moment later, Eres hears Gwyneth’s farewell from the bottom of the stairs.

“Be safe!” Gwyneth calls up to her. “Come back soon!”

Eres turns to smile at her, nodding, and waves her goodbye. Inigo waves much more exaggeratedly beside her, his whole body moving with it. She very nearly has to drag him away.

Inigo’s cheer lasts well until they are in the carriage, the driver M’que urging the horses into motion ahead of them, wheels sluggish in the packed snow. It lasts even as they cross into the Stuhn Ravine, the carriage shifting unsteadily as M’que expertly picks his way through the snowy pass.

Only once the wheels start to clack against the cobbled road leading south from Dawnstar does Inigo turn to her in the dim light of approaching nightfall, his mask of false cheer dropping from his face.

“Inigo does not like this,” he says, voice low and quiet, eyes uncharacteristically serious. “This one did not want Gwyneth to worry, but—” he shakes his head. The fur on his tail bristles, puffing out to nearly twice its usual size. “Inigo has a bad feeling about this mansion.”

Eres pulls her furs tightly around her shoulders. It feels like the documents in her pouch weigh several times more than they should. If she squints, she can just see the peaks of the mountains that rise up to cradle the Temple behind them, past the ravine.

“So do I,” she admits, turning her eyes to the stars. They make her feel small. “So do I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> annnnd so begins the second arc of this half of vigilant. and possibly my least favorite part of the mod to actually play but absolutely Ripe with potential for storytelling. if you've played vigilant - this is the part where it starts diverging.
> 
> as for serana - she does not have a large role in this act, though we might get a couple scenes here and there. i miss her but, well, you don't wanna really drag a girl into a situation where her past abuser might decide to show up and say hello.


	7. Bruiant Mansion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the arc I've been most worried about writing as this is where most of the changes to the mod canon start taking shape. Here we go.

ACT IV  
CHAPTER VII  
BRUIANT MANSION

Despite living in the Imperial City most of her life, Eres knows next to nothing about Chorrol.

It takes well over a week to reach Chorrol from the Temple of Stendarr, so far in the north of Skyrim. They take the roads south, south past Whiterun, south past Riverwood, then through Falkreath to the southwestern border of Skyrim and Cyrodiil, just a few miles south of the town. It was this very border that Eres herself had crossed just over a year ago, leaving Cyrodiil for the first time in her life, headed north to the estate she’d been granted following her father’s death. She hadn’t expected much more than a tiny plot of barren land. What she’d found had been more than she’d ever expected, and even now it continues to surprise her. Her father couldn’t have known the value of the land their ancestors had—he would have sold it otherwise, she’s sure.

The guards at the gate stop them as they arrive, chatting rather amicably with M’que. Eres leans over the side of the cart, unsurprised – Khajiit are always travelling between countries, and if there’s any border crossers that even the Empire doesn’t seem to mind, it’s the Khajiit. M’que speaks with the guards as if they’re old friends, and jerks a thumb in Eres’ direction.

On of the guard looks at her. Squints. When he approaches her, ordering her and Inigo out of the cart, Eres goes without protest. She knows that security at the border has only gotten more stringent since the last time she had come through. She had expected as much.

They ask her of her business in the Empire, where she’s from, where she’s headed – she produces her Vigilant’s horn, a couple of the documents from Bruiant mansion, and M’que even pipes up to add his confirmation to her story. The man still squints at her.

“You look familiar,” he mutters, eyeing her up and down.

“I came through here a while ago,” Eres admits. “I grew up in the capital.” He blinks, and his eyebrows raise so high that Eres sees the plumed helmet on his head shift a little bit, tilting a bit forward. He reaches up to correct it, pushing it back to rest on his brow.

“Got the accent, alright,” he muses, looking her up and down again. His brows furrow. “Where’d you say you were from again?”

“The capital, if you mean where I was born,” she tells him. “You’re welcome to look up my name if you have a census somewhere here. I should still be on there unless they’ve purged it since I left.”

Eres knows that the Empire conducts an official census of their citizens once every five years—to her memory, it had been just completed before her father had died. She remembers, because she’d had to navigate through the bureaucratical mess of amending the census after his passing, which had required more trips to the Consulate than she’d ever wanted to take. Unless they’d shortened the amount of time between censuses since she’d left, her name should still be on the rolls.

Whether or not they _had_ a census at the border, this far out from the capital, was another question entirely. There are thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, of people living within the Empire. The census, Eres knows, would be a book almost as large as her entire torso, and nearly as thick, scrawled with names in a careful scribe’s hand. Only the census in the capital is kept up to date, but each city is said to have one of their own. Whether or not their border security has tightened enough that they’re checking visitors against it, however, Eres does not know.

The man hums, pursing his lips together. Still squinting at her under his helmet. “The capital, huh?” He asks. She nods. He crosses his arms over his plated chest, raising his chin defiantly. She can’t quite read the look on his face. "Where did you live, then?" He asks. 

"East corridor," Eres answers easily, referring to the eastern side of the noble quarter, reserved for those who were well off _enough_ , but not terribly important in the capital itself. Her father had had money, once upon a time. He had never risen in the ranks of nobility as he'd dreamed of, as he'd promised, so drowned by his debts. They'd never moved anywhere higher than the East Corridor, and the home itself had been sequestered following his death to pay off what remained of his debts. All that had been left, after that, had been the long lost deed to Fellburg's land, buried at the bottom of a safety deposit box her father had emptied years and years before his passing. "Off Silk Row. Do you know it?" 

The man shifts on his feet, averting his gaze. His cheeks turn a bit red, and for a moment, she feels a bit guilty. There were few men within the Imperial Army who were of any highborn blood. Much of the army was filled with those looking to escape poverty--the Army paid well, much better than any trade an impoverished lad might ever hope to find himself apprenticed in. It was rude of her to have asked him that. The soldier clears his throat, shrugging his shoulders in a forcibly casual manner. "Haven't been," he says shortly. "Miss," he adds after a beat. She merely nods in return, watching as he shuffles off back toward the gate. 

M’que, up front, turns to look at them as the gate starts to open before them for their passage. “We should be at Chorrol in the next couple of days, if the weather holds.”

“Are you taking us straight to the mansion?” Eres asks, not thrilled with that prospect. “I’d like to speak with the Vigilants here, first.”

M’que nods sagely. “The Vigilant tower is not far from the city. This one can take you there first, then to the mansion.”

She thanks him, and settles back to wait.

In the daytime hours, she reads over the documents Gwyneth had sent her with. Now that they are within spitting distance of Chorrol, she wants to read them with fresh eyes. She wants the information she finds there to be fresh in her memory when she arrives. Gwyneth had had an entire pile of them on her desk, but it seemed she had sifted through and selected only the ones she had thought would be most useful.

The report from Lake Ilinalta had caught her attention first that first reading; a collection of short notes from the various hands who had been at the site of the body’s discovery.

_13 Sun’s Height, 4E-200._

_Body found on bank of Ilinalta, southwest, nearest to Half-Moon Mill. Severely burned. No missing reported from nearby villages or towns. Sent body to Falkreath. – Thorald Roddir, patrol #14-East._

From the mortuary in Falkreath:

_15 Sun’s Height, 4E-200._

_Ilinalta – Middle-aged female. Apparent cause of death: Fire. Decomposition possibly advanced by lake waters. Unable to determine probable time of death. Dress partially melted to skin, likely of high quality fiber. Woman may be of noble birth or high status. Ring on left hand indicates marriage as per Imperial tradition. Sigil upon ring not yet identifiable. Sent ring to Floki, jeweler – may be able to recover sigil’s crest. Body placed in deep cellar, table #3. – Thaddeus Leonidus, Arkanite._

Finally, from an Imperial investigator:

_23 Sun’s Height, 4E-200._

_Body at Lake Ilinalta positively identified as Lady Helena Bruiant, reported missing 2 months prior by husband Marcus Bruiant. Signet ring was used to confirm identity. Lord Marcus also identified. Opening investigation into Bruiant estate – several reported deaths surrounding the family._ Then, abruptly, a bit further down the page, it says: _Investigation passed on to Vigilants. – Officer Caduceus Clavina, 7 th District Regiment, Imperial City, Cyrodiil. _

Eres absently hands the letters to Inigo for him to look over on his own, then, her frown deepening as she searches for the first of the Vigilant reports from the branch in Chorrol. It seemed odd that the Imperials would have handed the investigation of the death of a noble off to the Vigilants so quickly, and with so little information officially documented. What could have happened that the Imperials wanted to wash their hands of so badly?

Though she looks through the other notes Gwyneth had sent with her, none of them appear to be from the Vigilants in Chorrol, but many written by Bartholo’s own hand, musings about the impending investigation. It seemed he had spent several days before leaving the Temple conducting research into the kinds of incidents that had been reported, writing down his theories on what he might expect upon arrival.

 _Unexplained deaths – Poltergeist?_ He writes, then goes on to list several types of malevolent spirits known to be able to affect the living, and who were also known to be quite violent, as well as the best defenses to use against them. _Child possession_ , he writes later, with several question marks following it. He then lists out several items to bring with him, in case an exorcism will be required.

The final note is stained with what appears to be ale, written in an unsteady hand. _Marcus_ , it says, _insane. Wife left, lost his mind. Blamed his kid. Imperials dismissed claims, went to Vigilants instead. Possibly nothing at Bruiant._

That’s all there is.

“Do _you_ think he was insane?” Inigo asks her, as he reads Bartholo’s notes for himself.

Eres leans against the side of the carriage, frowning. Her brow feels like it might wrinkle permanently, at this rate.

“I’m not sure,” she admits. “Bartholo’s right – his wife could have just left him.” She thinks of her own mother, and how much her father had insisted she was _‘probably dead, anyways’_ , when Eres had still been stupid enough to bother asking him, hoping for a real answer. After a time, she had stopped asking. Even if her mother hadn't been dead, she was certainly long gone. Women left terrible husbands all the time. Sometimes they even left their kids behind. If Marcus was at all like her father, the idea of a mother leaving on her own was not so farfetched. “But I don’t like the way her body was found.”

“Burned to a crisp,” Inigo remarks, emphasizing the word ‘crisp’ until it sounds almost as though he hisses it. “She was found at the lake – why did the water not put her out?”

“Maybe she burned _before_ the lake, and they just dumped her body there hoping it would sink.” _If_ she had been killed by someone else. “I can’t imagine it would be suicide. There are easier ways to go.”

Inigo nods. “Perhaps. But,” he adds, “what if she was a scorned woman, and turned to magic? Mages die in strange ways all the time.”

That much is true. If Helena had been a mage, she would not be the first or the tenth or even the hundredth mage to be found with such inexplicable wounds or burns all over, with no sign or indication where it might have come from. Eres had even seen for herself what effect a dimensional rift could have on someone who stood too close to a summoning, if they didn’t know what they were doing.

She can certainly imagine it easily enough: Helena, for some reason all the way in Skyrim, attempting to summon something from the beyond, and failing. Caught in the rift’s explosion as it opens, she might have burned to death before she even knew what had happened. Then, perhaps her body had simply fallen into the river, and eventually drifted to the shore it was found on.

But, if Helena had been a known mage, would they not have mentioned it in the reports they’d sent to the Vigilants? Wouldn’t that have been their first guess, for an unidentified body found in such a way? On the other hand, if Helena had _not_ been a known mage, there were two possibilities. First, that she had hidden her power, masqueraded as a simple noblewoman for most of her life, only to finally drop the act just before she died, for whatever reason. Second, that Helena had not been a mage at all, and instead had been drawn into magic by an outside force—

Perhaps someone not unlike that summoner she’d chased in her first few months of a Vigilant. 

They stop at the Vigilant’s tower, just outside of the great forest that encompasses the city of Chorrol. M’que waits in the carriage as she and Inigo venture within, finding the place near empty save for a few meandering souls. They look almost as empty an Order as Eres’ own.

“You must be Keeper Eres,” says an older man who greets her; Imperial with deeply tanned skin, hair cropped short, streaks of grey running through the deep black. He does not smile. “Keeper Sirius.”

“Heh, _Serious_ ,” Inigo says quietly. Eres presses her lips together to keep from smirking, hoping she doesn’t look as though she's laughing at him. Not the best first impression she could make. Keeper Sirius does not react outwardly either to the jibe or Eres' amusement, and she considers that well enough for the moment. 

“Good to meet you. I’m afraid the documents I’ve looked over for this case are a bit spare on the details. Could you tell me more of this situation at Bruiant?”

Keeper Sirius nods. He is, as Inigo had so quaintly put, a very serious, stern looking man. He clasps his hands behind his back, his posture as rigid and soldier-like as they come.

“Several months ago, Marcus Bruiant first went to the guard within the Imperial City,” Sirius explains. “Reporting several strange incidences that had occurred in his home. Strange sounds at night, unidentified voices, and several unexplained injuries amongst his staff. He believed, at the time, that someone was hiding out near or _in_ his home, causing havoc whenever someone wasn’t looking.”

Sirius turns, beckoning with a tilt of his head, and Eres follows him as he walks—not inside the tower, but around the outside of it, following a well-worn path that makes Eres certain he and others must walk it often. Just southwest of them, the tall, dense forest of Chorrol rises into the sky in the distance, nothing but unwelcoming darkness visible within.

“An officer did investigate, at first, and even ordered several deputies to remain overnight in the mansion. However, the deputies reported that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred during the night, and the case was dropped. Marcus returned several more times in the following months, complaining of escalating activity within his home, but by that time…” He shakes his head. “The man seemed raving mad, insisting that his mansion was cursed. The Imperials have little patience for such things. They banned him from further requests and sent him home for wasting their time.”

That certainly sounded like Imperial officers. Always doing the bare minimum.

“So he came to you,” Eres figures.

“So he came to us,” Sirius confirms. “But only after his wife had gone missing. Perhaps he believed no one could help him, and thought to deal with it on his own. He did state he had tried several cleansings of his home,” Sirius shakes his head, tutting disdainfully. “Folk remedies. Wives’ tales. Nothing that would have helped with an actual haunting. But, as one would expect, his attempts proved ineffective, and things continued to escalate, and he finally came to us.”

“What exactly were these escalations?”

Siruis frowns, the expression making the deep lines on his face even deeper. “I am afraid even I don’t know much of it. He was very…vague, about the details. I believe he thought we would think him insane. He insisted that we must send someone to see it for themselves. But he did mention that several people on his staff had died in sudden, unfortunate accidents.”

“That happens sometimes.” That, of course, would be the best case scenario – that perhaps the deaths were unrelated.

“Two is a coincidence,” Sirius says firmly.

“Three is a pattern,” Eres nods, finishing the idiom herself. She knows it well—it’s a common one, in the Empire, perhaps all of Tamriel, even. “How many deaths?”

“Including the Lady Helena, at least four that we know of, within just a few months.”

Eres crosses her arms, feeling cold. Compared to Skyrim, Chorrol feels like a tropical vacation. The sun even feels warm on her back. There’s a chill in the air, just a bit, but not enough to make her as cold as she feels.

No, the chill she feels then comes from the knowledge, the expectation, that Bruiant—and all that had happened there—is not as simple as it sounds. Eres’ experience with the likes of poltergeists and possessions were indeed limited to what she had read in books down in the records room at the Temple – such events weren’t as common in Skyrim, where Daedra worship was more of a problem than hauntings – but she knew _of_ them. And the more physical an effect a haunting had, the more dangerous its source tended to be.

That it was possible a simple haunting could have resulted in not one, but _several_ deaths in such a short period did not bode well. And that isn’t even counting Bartholo. Number five. A trained, senior Vigilant, who should have known exactly what he was getting into. Should have had more than enough experience and knowledge to be able to navigate even a serious haunting like this one seemed to be.

That he, too, had wound up missing, _also_ did not bode well. Not well at all.

Her paranoia creeps up on her once more, slithering up the back of her neck and burrowing deep into the back of her mind. _What if?_ What if this was yet another machination of Molag Bal? Would he have even ventured so far from Skyrim, just betting on the off chance that somehow, the incident would reach her, and she would come?

Or perhaps that was why the body had been dumped in Lake Ilinalta, so that it might be investigated by _Skyrim’s_ Vigilants rather than Chorrol’s. Lake Ilinalta isn’t so far from Fellburg, itself, and she had been there not too long ago. Perhaps Molag Bal had simply _placed_ that body within her territory, knowing that somehow, someway, its discovery would reach her, and she would go hunting for answers – as she always does.

Or—perhaps she’s overthinking it. Again.

 _But_ , she considers, her mind whirling as she walks back to the carriage, _I wasn’t wrong about Windhelm. It **was** him down there. _

Was it really paranoia, if she was _right_? Isn’t it then just intuition?

“Ready to go?” Inigo asks, perking up in his seat. She climbs in with a nod, tapping the side of the carriage. It lurches into movement beneath them. “What did he say about the mansion?”

“Not much we don’t already know,” Eres tells him. “Unexplained deaths, strange occurrences, all within a short period of time. I imagine we’ll find out more when we get there. I’m sure Bartholo must have taken some kind of notes while he was there.” Especially if he had been there as long as he’d been missing, simply observing.

“If he is alive.”

Eres does not shrug, but she does make a face. “Alive _or_ dead,” she mutters. “If he’s left his notes behind, we’ll still be able to look through them. Even if he’s not around to explain it himself.”

Inigo nods, though he looks troubled. “Inigo still does not like this.” He shudders, and for once it doesn’t look as though he does it for the sake of dramatics, but because he truly _does_ feel that way. “Inigo does not like ghosts.”

Surprised, she looks at him. “You did fine with vampires.”

“I can _see_ vampires,” he says plainly. “I cannot see ghosts. As long as Inigo can see something, he is not afraid of it.” He mimes drawing an arrow back with his hand, mimicking the sound of its whistling shot with his mouth, then an exaggerated _pssh_ of its supposed impact, seconds later.

“Inigo can always shoot what he sees. You cannot shoot ghosts. They are already dead, what harm can you do to them? You cannot kill what is already dead. Cannot make something _more_ dead than what it is.” Well, there are the _un_ dead, but that’s not the point he’s making, she’s sure. Draugr and vampires are a little different from non-corporeal apparitions. “But they can do harm to you. Ghosts do not play by the same rules as you and I do, my friend.”

“If it’s bad, then Dawnbreaker can cut through it,” she assures him. There’s just the barest ghost of a hum at her back, as if Dawnbreaker offers her its assurance. “Don’t worry.”

Eres jolts awake, feeling sudden stillness beneath her. The carriage has stopped moving.

She sits up, nearly kicks Inigo in the head when she straightens. She pulls her foot back in time, but clips one of his ears just close enough that he jerks awake, too, eyes flashing open and one of his hands reaching for his bow. He sees her, looks around himself, and relaxes, settling.

“Are we there?” He asks sleepily, and then yawns loudly.

“I think so.” She can only barely see the iron-clad gates of a home in front of her in the dark. Near the front of the cart, a hooded, tall man approaches to speak softly with M’que, discussing his payment. M’que asks after Bartholo, and the hooded man shakes his head, silent.

Eres is the first to climb from the carriage, taking a moment to stretch out her limbs before she goes to meet the man. Inigo lags behind in the cart, mumbling to himself.

“Good evening,” she greets him politely as she approaches, bowing her head in a slight dip of acknowledgement. “I am Keeper Eres. Are you the same man who met Bartholo here?”

The hooded man turns to look at her, and drops his hood, seemingly out of respect. She blinks, taken aback for a moment—he’s _Ayleid_. The olive-toned skin and near-stark white hair is testament enough. She doesn’t think she’s ever actually seen one up close—most of them tend to stick to their own tribes, far away from civilization. He smiles politely at her, a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes, eyes that are a stunning shade of golden amber even in the dark. How odd. The Wild Elves, as some called them, had been anything but fond of the Empire since its formation, since the very Rebellion that had led to the Ayleid's fall from power—and their expulsion from civilized society. Much of the remaining Ayleid, now, to her knowledge, lived on the very fringes of society, interacting with the Empire as little as possible. Just how, and _why_ , would an Ayleid have come into the service staff of an Imperial noble? 

“Evening,” he says, and his voice caresses the syllables strangely, like he’s not quite grown used to the language yet and takes extra care to pronounce everything in the _exact_ right way, in the kind of way that is very much correct but also _too_ correct in that it sounds a bit unnatural, a bit too rehearsed. “It is good to meet you as well. Yes,” he answers, “’twas I who first escorted your brethren, Bartholo, into this home not so long ago. I am afraid he, too, may have met an unfortunate fate.”

She frowns at him. “Do you not know for sure?”

“No,” he says shortly. “I have not seen him since. The mansion has been evacuated for the time being.” He extends his arm to her, and smiles politely. She reaches out to grasp it on instinct, until he says:

“My name is Bhal.”

She freezes, eyes snapping to meet his. He stares back at her, nonplussed. She manages to clasp his arm in her hand, gripping it firmly in the customary greeting, and feels warmth beneath her fingertips. He’s warm. Not a vampire. Not undead.

“That’s…a sinister name you have,” she says slowly.

“Bhal?” His eyebrows raise up, looking at her with some incredulity. “It’s a very common name among the Ayleid.”

Eres has no idea if that’s true, but she doesn’t know quite enough about the Aylied to be sure. She keeps her suspicion from showing on her face, however, and glances over her shoulder towards Inigo, only just now clambering down from the back of the carriage, amicably chatting with M’que as he collects his things.

“Shall we?” Bhal asks her, gesturing with a sweep of his hand towards the short walkway leading to the front door of the great mansion. “I am sure your friend can catch up with you. We must catch Master Bruiant before he retires for the night.”

For a moment, Eres hesitates, standing there between Bhal and the mansion, and Inigo and M’que and his carriage. The door is only a short walk from the front gate, clearly visible, and even a blind man might have been able to find it easily. Inigo didn’t need an escort to be able to find it, and perhaps Bhal was being perfectly upfront.

Or perhaps, he’s merely Molag Bal in disguise, trying to fuck with her again, and he means to get her alone.

Going alone is a monumentally stupid idea.

Eres does it anyway. She nods at Bhal, allowing him to lead her to the front door. “I will bring your friend to you shortly,” Bhal tells her as he leads her inside, to a darkened foyer with naught but a single candle lit.

Ahead of her, the entrance hall opens into what could have been a grand ballroom—but all she can see are its marble floors, and the stairs twisting upwards at the other side, converging into a landing just above not unlike a balcony. She can just see a man standing there, his form shadowed against the moonlit windows behind him. Waiting for her, seemingly, judging by the way Bhal gestures for her to approach.

Eres does take two steps forward. Apparently satisfied, Bhal nods to himself, and turns to exit the home once more, closing the door behind him. Eres watches the figure at the top of the landing, waiting for Inigo to join her. She might have felt just slightly more settled now that Bhal was gone again, but—why was that man so still? His figure hadn’t so much as twitched since she’d entered the hall.

The door handle jiggles back and forth abruptly behind her. Eres’ heart leaps a bit in her throat, and she rolls her eyes at herself, turning to go back to the door.

“Eres?” Comes Inigo’s voice. “Why did you lock me out?”

“I didn’t.” She huffs, reaching it. “That Bhal guy probably locked it, hold on.”

She’s reaching for the deadbolt, about to try fiddling with it to see if she can find which lock Bhal had engaged, when Inigo says:

“What guy?”

Eres halts. Turns her eyes to the ceiling. Lets out a long, tired sigh. She should’ve known. She _did_ know—but there'd been a part of her, a _tiny_ part of her that had thought even Molag Bal wouldn’t be cheeky enough to approach her with a servant literally named after himself. She'd gone alone on a whim, but she'd _thought_ that would have been too obvious. She can have her paranoid delusions, but that didn’t mean all of them had to be _true_.

Apparently, Molag Bal did not agree.

Eres tries the handle, and the deadbolt, and the second and third locks on the door she finds after that. No matter which way she turns them and in what combination, the door remains shut. The handle twists, and Eres can even peer close between the door and doorjamb and see the little lock disengaging – one of the fancy ones all the nobles had that were supposed to keep bandits from being able to break the doors down. But even when she can _see_ that the door is not locked physically, it doesn’t budge. Not even an inch.

“Eres?” Inigo calls, and the door handle jerks into motion again, a bit more forcefully. Nothing.

She presses her forehead against the cool wood of that door, hearing Inigo’s mutterings on the other side as he kneels to try and pick a lock that doesn’t matter.

This mansion had killed at least four people. Possibly five, if she counted Bartholo.

And now she was inside it. Alone. Because she’d thought, stupidly, in that one instant where she’d considered it – if this _was_ Molag Bal, that she should keep Inigo at just a little bit of a distance, just in case. Just in case.

She’d been right, of course. She’s always right. She hates that she’s right about this, all the time. She hates even more that she’d been stupid enough to walk in here alone.

Eres hears the sound of a lockpick snapping and a soft swear, and she straightens against the door.

“Inigo—” she calls out.

“Wait,” he says, his voice fading a little. “Inigo is going to try a window!”

“Inigo, don’t break—” There’s a loud thud, somewhere to the left of her. Followed by several more, each progressively louder. Then the same sounds to her right, several loud thuds in quick succession. When she presses her hand against the door, she can even feel the vibration of the blows through the wood.

After several moments, she hears Inigo’s voice at the door again, sounding defeated, laced with anxiety.

“Inigo cannot break the windows,” he tells her, sounding horribly guilty – like it’s his own fault. “But I _will_ keep trying to find a way in. You say there was a guy here?”

Eres sighs. She’s not sure there ever was, anymore. “Maybe. Wait—M’que,” she says, remembering him suddenly. M’que had _spoken_ with Bhal. He _had_ to be real. It wasn’t just her. “M’que was talking to him earlier. Maybe he knows where he went.”

Not that she thinks that Bhal will be easily found, or that he will let Inigo in, beside that. But it does at least prove she’s not entirely lost her mind. She’s not seeing things again.

“Okay,” Inigo says through the door. He knocks on it several times, as if to make a point. “You stay here until I get back. Do not move.” She hears his footsteps as he steps from the stone porch back onto the grass—and then he is gone.

Eres shoulders her pack, and turns back towards the ballroom, and the man that stares down at her from the balcony above.

Yeah. She’s not going to just sit here waiting for something to happen to her. She’s going to have to assume that Inigo won’t be able to find his way in, if this is Molag Bal’s doing, after all. She’s on her own.

Eres touches the hilt of Dawnbreaker, just for the assurance. It vibrates softly when she touches it, barely more than a hum, but goes silent when she releases it. She hesitates, hand hovering near it, brow furrowing. She doesn’t think it’s ever done that before.

Eres drops her hand back to her side. Stares up at the unmoving man on the balcony. His shadowed figure remains as still as it had been when she’d first seen him, shoulders broad, hands braced on either side of the railing as he looks down over it, over the ballroom—at her, she imagines, because there’s nothing else to look at.

“Lord Marcus?” She tries. The figure doesn’t move. She places her hand on Dawnbreaker again, and this time she draws it, holds it firm in her hands as she steps forward, out of the entrance hall and into the ballroom beyond it. The light from its gem blazes in the dimly lit room, throwing the marble floors and tall columns reaching up to the ceiling in sharp relief.

There’s a statue at the base of those stairs, Eres realizes, eyes flicking downward to examine it, now that Dawnbreaker has illuminated it. It’s a woman, draped in a long dress, body twisted attractively as her arms reach above her head, one holding a singular, delicately carved flower whose petals drape softly over her hands as if made of silk rather than stone. It almost looks a little bit like Dibella.

She looks up again, toward the balcony once more, now much closer than she had been, and freezes in place.

The man is gone.

She turns, Dawnbreaker in hand, raising its pommel so that its brightness illuminates every shadow where she points it. She sees nothing. No one on the balcony. No one on the stairs. No one in the entire ballroom – just the statue, and two suits of decorative armor on either side of each door on the east and west sides of the large room that she imagines leads to the rest of the home.

Eres even walks up the stairs herself, Dawnbreaker held tight at her side, poised to swing if she must—but there’s no one there, either, not hiding beneath the railing where she can’t see them. Not ducked behind a curtain near the windows. There’s not a single sign of the man she’d seen, leaning over his domain, staring down at her from above. She hadn’t seen him move. She hadn’t even _heard_ him move, which she certainly should have, given that the house was eerily silent around her.

Nothing.

Surely, she hadn’t just been seeing things. She _knows_ there had been a man here. She hadn’t just imagined him, she’s sure of it. But it hadn’t looked at all like the specters she’d seen in the Forgotten Vale, the eternal spirits of the prelates watching over Auriel’s wayshrines. Those had been mists of pale blue against white, near translucent, the world behind them just as visible as though she had been looking through a sheer curtain.

This man, shadow or no, had been _solid_. Present. He’d been there.

And then he wasn’t. Just like that.

Eres turns a slow circle at the top of the stairs on the landing, checking one last time. She sees nothing more than she had the first time, and she sighs. Could Molag Bal come up with nothing better than shadowmen?

Eres turns to go back down the stairs, irritated. She makes it four steps from the landing before she hears something _splat_ under her foot. Eres steps back out of it, frowning, looking down—and sees her own footprint, bright red against white marble. There’s even more of those little red boot-prints in front of her, leading to the door, but facing in the wrong direction—coming towards her, and going back up the stairs, following the exact path she’d tread not moments before.

She bends down to swipe a finger through the red, rubbing it between her fingers. Blood. She’d expected nothing less.

She _i_ _s_ surprised that it seemed to be _her_ footprints tracking blood into the ballroom, yes. Surprised that there is blood at all, however—no. Of course there would be. A mansion with this many deaths attached to it, and Molag Bal’s hands in it—she’d have been more surprised if she _hadn’t_ found something like this.

Eres turns away from the footprints leading back to the front door and turns back towards the stairs again; tries to see where the blood is thickest, freshest underfoot. It takes her a moment to even see it, draped in the shadow of the statue as it is. In fact, she _hears_ it before she sees it, a slow _drip drip drip_ onto the marble floor, so quiet, too, that she might not have heard it if there had been any sound in the ballroom aside from her own breathing.

She looks, down at the basin, down at the little fountain beneath the statue’s platform. A hand curls over the edge of the fountain, claw-like in its rigidity, frozen in a singular moment in time, reaching up from inside the fountain like whoever owned it had tried to clamber their way out and had gotten stuck halfway.

Or, Eres thinks as she leans closer, raising Dawnbreaker’s light to illuminate it—like a corpse had been thrown into the water haphazardly without care. The fountain’s water is stained a deep, dark red. Only the body’s hand is visible from over the edge of the lip of the fountain, the rest of the body submerged in that dark water, unmoving.

Eres sheathes Dawnbreaker, calling instead a little orb of magelight to float overhead as she moves closer. 

“Well, hello, Marcus,” she mutters, crouching near him. She’s certain it must be him, with the intricately embroidered finery, the jewelry on his hands and neck speaking volumes of his wealth, the slight pudge around his middle. He had plainly been a very wealthy man. She could have told that just from looking at him, even without seeing his sprawling mansion.

For a man who’d seemingly been tossed into the fountain as an afterthought, he almost looks as though he’s fallen from somewhere on high, body twisted at an unusual angle, face-first, his arms and legs spread as if he had hoped to learn to fly somewhere on the way down. There’s so much blood mixing with the water within the fountain that she can’t even tell where it’s come from, where he’d been wounded so badly to bleed so much.

Eres straightens, planting her legs solidly, and leans down to reach to turn him over, aided with his girth by the fact he’s half-floating in that murky water. The body flops over, reddish-water splattering into her face and on her lips as his arm slaps into the water. Eres wipes her face roughly with her sleeve, grimacing, then leans down to peer closer at him.

The blood in the water comes from a vicious wound at his neck, leaking sluggishly from a gash so large it looks like his throat has nearly been ripped clean out. His dark eyes are still open, staring vacantly up at the ceiling, an opaque, whitish film starting to form over the corneas, jaw opened in a frozen, pained grimace.

How long had this body been here?

Eres steps back from him, frowning. She doesn’t bother trying to lift him out of the fountain—even half submerged, he’d been _heavy_ , and she knows she won’t be able to drag him out of there by herself. But how had he gotten there? And who had killed him so brutally?

The first question bothers her more than the second.

When she looks around her, inspecting the marble flooring, she can see no blood anywhere, aside from that tiny puddle where his hand had hung over the edge—she might have missed that puddle entirely, had she not stepped in it. She might not have ever even seen the body itself at all for the shadows the statue cast, if she hadn't noticed the blood first and looked for its source. She'd walked right _past_ him without seeing him, the first time.

But just how the hell would his body have gotten into that fountain without spilling any blood? She looks up, but the roof is solid. There are rafters above, in the vaulted ceilings, but the kind that brace the ceiling flush against it, not the kind that someone could have climbed onto, hauling a body, or hung something from. He couldn't have been dropped through a skylight, either, when the room did not have one. Somehow, he’d just been killed, and then placed there, without ever leaving any evidence of where he’d come from. She certainly can’t imagine someone had killed him _in_ the fountain.

Eres looks back at the body, and crouches back down to search through the man’s pockets. With disgust, she finally peels a ringlet of keys from his vest pocket, soaked in blood and a bit of pinkish tissue she doesn’t even _want_ to know the origin of. She dips the keys into the water of the fountain and gives them a few vigorous shakes to clean them, then dries them off on the edge of her cloak. 

She makes to head to one of the hallways, then stops mid-step, and pulls her small journal from her pack. She writes quickly her observations of Marcus’ body – and his apparent, violent death – just in case his body disappears by the time she finds a way out of here. Then she tucks the journal back into her pack, and draws Dawnbreaker once more as she heads for the east wing first.

Whatever it was that had killed Marcus—it certainly hadn’t been any ghost. Had Eres been a betting woman, she might have bet the entirety of Fellburg on that. Ghosts didn’t tear a man’s throat out.

Daedra, however, _did_. 


	8. East Wing

ACT IV  
CHAPTER VIII  
EAST WING

A boy stands before her. He can hardly be older than ten, twelve if she pushes it, dressed in the fine clothes of a noble with a shock of messy brown hair over pale, ashen skin and dark eyes. For a moment, she almost thinks the boy is a vampire, with the death-like pallor of his complexion—but his eyes aren’t red, they don’t glow, and he makes no move toward her.

He just stands there. Looking at her. Swaying lightly on his feet. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t even seem to blink.

What had Gwyneth said the little boy’s name was, again? Julio?

“Julius?” She remembers, and asks aloud. She almost expects no response – the shadow that had been Marcus hadn’t responded, and she’d found him dead moments later. She almost expects the same here—for him to vanish as soon as she looks away, only to find his dead body waiting around the next corner.

Julius doesn’t vanish. He holds her gaze, almost as though he sees her, and then silently turns on his heel, disappearing around a corner.

Were Eres a smart woman, a _normal_ woman, she might have turned around right then and there, gone back to the ballroom, and hung out with Marcus’ body until someone found a way to break through whatever spell had locked her in here alone.

But Eres is—she’s not _stupid_ , necessarily, but she’s a Vigilant, and she’s Dragonborn, and therefore she is most decidedly _not_ normal, and she’s also _quite_ sure that Molag Bal won’t make it easy for anyone else to break through that spell until he’s done with whatever game he’s playing with her.

Which means following creepy-ghost-boy down a dark corridor like she has no common sense. It’s not the smartest thing she’s ever done by leaps and bounds, but at least she’s _aware_ of how colossally idiotic she’s being. At least she knows very well what kind of trouble she’s deciding to walk into. She’s not going into this with her guard down. She knows better.

And so, with a long-suffering sigh, Eres follows him, taking the hallway to the right just as he had before her.

Julius waits for her at the end of that hall, facing her. He stares silently at her as she walks toward him, and then he turns again, as creepy and quiet as ever, and walks briskly into the room on his left.

Eres follows him there, too, turning into the room. Julius stands behind a desk, dark eyes fixed on hers. Mechanically, the boy raises one stiff, long arm, and points at the desk. She hears a click, and then the soft sound of a drawer sliding open. Julius drops his hand, and when she blinks, he is gone.

She looks at the floor, first, expecting to see his body somewhere, but the floor is unsoiled, no body, no blood, no sign of a struggle—nothing. Just a normal floor. Eres turns, goes back to peer out at the hallway, almost suspecting she’ll find his body there, instead, but there is nothing waiting for her there, either.

“Alright,” she says aloud, if only to break the oppressive silence. “What are you getting at…?”

She turns, back into the room, back to the desk Julius had stood behind, and she crosses behind it to where she can see the open drawer, the only one that is open at all. There’s a lock on the drawer, seemingly disengaged.

Inside it, a single journal.

Eres picks it up. Heavy—the journal is bound in fine, polished black leather, held closed with a leather strap and a finely carved silver buckle with the Bruiant sigil engraved upon it. Eres looks around her, then to the ceiling, and waves the book in her hand.

“I’m guessing you want me to read this?” She asks, not even sure whether she addresses Julius, or Molag Bal, or if they’re one and the same, at this point. If there was ever a Julius at all.

She receives no answer, but she hadn’t really expected one.

Eres pulls the silver buckle open, unwraps the leather strap holding the journal closed, and flicks the journal open to the first page. She skims through its contents absently, humming under her breath just to hear _something_ besides her own thoughts in her head.

The first several dozen pages of the journal, on a quick glance, seem to be nothing but expense reports, written clinically. Cases of wine, servant salaries, tutors for the boy Julius. Several of them have extra lines here and there – _400 septims – Julius toy_. _7548 septims – necklace for Helena._ Simple, mundane things, nothing of note in the slightest—she can’t even discern anything about Marcus himself other than the fact that he was dreadfully boring.

She isn’t sure why Julius—or Molag Bal, whoever it had been—wants her to read the journal until she gets halfway to the end, flipping past expense reports and short descriptions of business ventures or deals Marcus had made.

Then, suddenly, the pages fill not with notes or expenses or clinical, detached observations, but actual journal entries, long, winding paragraphs of introspection that fill entire pages. She thumbs back to the first of them, frowning.

 _‘I met her in Markarth…’_ The entry begins with, and Marcus continues to describe a woman he had met there, beautiful and young and flirtatious, how she had tempted him—how Dibella herself had corrupted his loyal, steadfast heart. At first his ramblings are as much waxing poetical about the mysterious woman as they are him lamenting and wallowing in his own guilt and self-deprecation for his infidelity. By the fourth entry, all hint of guilt has all but vanished from his writing. He seems almost thrilled, childlike in the secret romance he holds from his wife.

Eres’ lip curls in disgust. _Men_ , she thinks, shaking her head. If _she_ had a wife, what need would she have for other women? She’s never understood how people stray from their lovers. She and Serana haven’t so much as _talked_ about the unspoken— _whatever it is_ —between them, she’s not even _certain_ Serana feels the same way, not really, and she still can’t imagine herself lusting after someone else.

She skims past several more long passages of Marcus getting lyrical about his second lover, bored. Just a few pages before the end of the entries, she sees it – Marcus, writing about how he’d _bought_ her—from a slaver of some kind. What kind of brothel had this man been going to that he’d just been able to buy her like a piece of property?

But the very next entry is notably less positive, starting with: ‘ _She told me she was pregnant. She was so happy. I was furious…’_ Marcus had thrown her out, left the girl to fend for herself—and then his writing turned angry and hateful, describing how the woman had told the authorities, how he’d been forced to pay for her expenses, how he felt the woman had extorted him deliberately, knowing how much money he had.

For many pages after that, the entries return to their normal nature. Back to the usual expense reports and business-like language. She thumbs through until she gets to the next of Marcus’ rambling entries.

 _‘Helena,’_ she sees, and stops abruptly. This could be the connection she’s looking for, the connection she’s supposed to be seeing.

 _3 First Seed, 4E 200._ The dates matched up. ‘ _Helena has grown cold to me. She doesn’t speak to me, barely even looks at me.’_ Marcus writes. _‘She couldn’t have found out, could she…?’_

_7 Sun’s Height, 4E 200. Where could they have gone? She must have found out about that harlot in Markarth. Helena and Julius disappeared—I can’t find them anywhere. I had servants search the entire mansion, and nothing! And if I told anyone that they were missing, who would be the first person they would blame? Who’s the first person they always blame? The husband. I didn’t do this._

_19 Sun’s Height, 4E 200. We found Julius. Lamthor found him wandering near the edge of the grounds by the forest, alone. Helena wasn’t with him. He won’t speak. He won’t even look anyone in the eye. Helena is still missing._

_28 Sun’s Height, 4E 200. Helena is dead._

That was the entire entry. Several blank pages followed.

_2 Last Seed, 4E 200. We have laid Helena to rest. I could not bring myself to cry. I think I lost my love for her some time ago. Julius still does not speak. I have not told him about his mother’s death. When he is better._

_13 Hearthfire, 4E 200. The maid Hestia fell and broke her neck on the stairs. We will be transporting her body back to her hometown to be buried. Her death seems strange. Julius saw it happen, and he did not even react. He was just standing there, staring at her body when we found them. He’s starting to scare me. What’s happened to the son I used to know?_

_24 Hearthfire, 4E 200. Something’s in the hallways at night. I can hear them crawling around. I’ve looked, I’ve gone hunting for them in the night every time I hear them and I never find anything not one thing is ever out there but I still hear them every night outside my door. We got a replacement for Hestia, some Wild Elf named Bhal—Julius was immediately taken with him. It’s the first time I’ve seen him engage with anything since his mother’s death._

Eres doesn’t like the sound of that.

_17 Frostfall, 4E 200. We found Clifford’s body in the pond today. The Arkanite said it was a heart condition that killed him. Julius stands and stares at that pond all day. I can’t even tell if he’s grieving. He has no expression on his face, nothing in his eyes. He just stares._

_21 Frostfall, 4E 200. The crawling sound is back again and it’s getting louder all the time I don’t understand why this is happening have I lost my mind? Is this what I get for that little fling in Markarth? A dead wife, a son I don’t recognize? My staff dying all around me and specters clawing up my floors at night? I’ve had enough._

_23 Frostfall. M’zaq the gardener’s dead. He fell from a ladder while landscaping and fell onto his shears. Sliced his throat right open. I saw it happen right in front of me—it was like someone made him fall that way. How else would the shears have been sticking straight up when he fell on them? There’s something in this mansion and no one is listening to me and this is the only way I can make sense of what’s happening._

_31 Frostfall. I keep having the strangest dream_ , Marcus writes. _In a room full of rust and blood, I see my son, but his eyes blaze at me like fire with so much hatred in his heart. A man in black armor—_

Eres stiffens, straightening.

_A man in black armor and Helena stand beside him. The armored man points at me and gives me a single red stone. It burns my hands and my arms turn to ashes and I scream but Helena just laughs at me and Julius just stares and then I wake up. But every night it lasts a little longer and it gets a little clearer and I’m afraid to sleep at night in my own home._

Eres skims through several entries more, looking for more mentions of men in black armor, but sees none. Several following entries detail the strange deaths of staff within the home—and then the arrival of Bartholo, and how the incidents had suddenly stopped.

And then, _Bartholo has started to behave strangely. He looks very tired and distant. Julius used to avoid him like the plague, but now he just sits outside of Bartholo’s room and plays with his toys in front of his door. Bartholo won’t come out. What changed so suddenly?_

Bartholo is dead—that much Eres is sure of. But how he had died, and who had killed him, she’s not quite certain of. The easiest assumption would be that it was Julius, somehow. But the boy couldn’t be older than twelve, and it was _his_ spirit who had shown Eres to the journal that pointed him as suspect. If it was really Julius behind it, why would he want her to know?

On the other hand, there’s still no guarantee that Julius _is_ Julius – or that the spirit she’d seen was the spirit of Julius himself rather than an illusion sent to direct her by Molag Bal, manipulating her into chasing down the shadows _he_ wanted her to chase.

Eres rubs at her temples. She can feel tension tightening the muscles at the base of her neck, a dull ache beginning to ramp up to a throbbing pain. All this circular thinking, trying to figure out what his goal is, is going to give her a migraine.

It’s no use, trying to figure out where he’s leading her before she gets there. But eventually, if she follows the steps laid out in front of her, she’s certain she’ll reach him. He’ll show himself to her, eventually, and lay out his hand, and she can tell him to go fuck himself. Again. Maybe this time he plans on killing her, but if he was—why bother with the goose chase?

Eres shoves Marcus’ journal deep into her bag, shoulders it once more, and looks around the room. There must be something more here, some sign of what she might be up against. Perhaps more of Marcus’ journals lying around somewhere, even.

She pulls the drawers of his desk out, cards through the books on his shelves, crouches to peer under the mattress. When she’s flipped the whole room over and found nothing, she returns to the desk, pulling the chair out to crouch low and reach beneath the desk table, running her fingers over the wood, searching for a hidden clasp or panel she hadn’t noticed before.

Nothing.

Eres sits back on her heels, huffing. There must be something else.

She turns her head, not even quite expecting to find anything, when she sees it.

Blood.

Blood on the floor, curling out from behind a shelf that’s ever so slightly askew as if its been pulled out from the wall to hide something behind it.

Eres shifts, scooting to look behind it, and though she’d _known_ —she’s suspected, deeply, of course, she’d known in her own way—having it confirmed still sent her stomach sinking, dread curling low inside her.

A small totem, carved and painted a deep black, sits just behind the shelf. Blood has dried on the blackened head, on the points of the two horns curling upward from each side of it, and the small carving of Molag Bal’s visage is settled within a little blackened basin where the blood that had been poured over the totem had collected and now sat at rest, thick and viscous, crusted at the edges like much of it had dried long before she had ever stepped foot into the mansion.

At her back, Dawnbreaker’s hum grows from a gentle, near imperceptible keening to something that feels like it rattles in its sheath, yearning for release.

Eres can feel the power of the curse surrounding it, seeping from it like a plague, dark energy suffusing the air around it, the ground, the walls, the ceiling—now that she’s seen it, she feels it even on the very edge of consciousness, beneath her skin where her mana rests, grating her against the edges, tendrils of it grasping for her, digging in wherever it can find purchase, trying to climb into her very essence like a parasite.

Something shifts behind her. She spins, sword raised, expecting to see Julius or even some dark entity Molag Bal might have called against her, but there’s nothing there but an empty room, and the feeling of something slithering, slinking up the back of her neck intensifies, raising the little hairs on end.

On pure instinct, her head snaps back, slaps against her skin. When she looks at her palm, it’s empty, and the skittering feeling is back where it started, crawling up her spine centimeter by torturous centimeter.

A hissing, a whisper of a breath against the shell of her ear, that crawling that spreads from her neck down her torso and arms and legs. Her sword arm jerks, twitching against her own will, and Dawnbreaker clatters to the floor next to her as her hands brush at bare arms. She steps away from the totem, near toppling over the desk chair, and when she catches herself with a hand on its backrest, she sees the little shadow of a spider come crawling out from her sleeve, skittering across the leathery surface.

“ _Fuck_ —” she’s hardly gotten the word out when it vanishes, winking out of existence, dissipating into thin air. The crawling sensation on her skin remains, growing stronger by the moment, and if she squints she can see them, pouring out over her hands and legs and feet and they’re _everywhere_ —

Cursing again, Eres spins, throws out her leg, smashing the totem into the wall with a solid kick.

It’s the strangest thing, really, like the illusion has to reset. For just a moment, she feels nothing at all. For just a second. Then it’s back again, as strong as ever and strengthening. Eres crushes the totem beneath her boot, smashing it to pieces, hearing the squelch of her boot as she slams her foot into the bloodied carving again and again until it’s nothing but shattered pieces of clay underfoot.

The feeling fades. The anxiety under her skin recedes. She feels just the ghost of that crawling over her skin every few seconds, her mind playing tricks on her now, every brush of cloth or hair an insect; a spider dashing across her skin. She opens the collar of her robe, peers down inside for good measure—her skin is unmarred, her clothes decidedly _not_ infested with tiny little spiders nipping and biting her.

Eres ties her robes again, tighter this time, letting out an aggravated growl as she does it.

 _“Really_?” She asks, eyes turned to the ceiling, throwing her hands up like Molag Bal might hear her if she yells loudly enough. “Don’t you have anything better to do?”

There’s no response, of course. Eres curses him under her breath, scowling as she gathers her bag and stalks back out of the room. She has to fight against the instinct to slap herself whenever her clothes brush against her skin, half-convinced it hadn’t just been an illusion.

 _“Spiders?”_ Eres mutters, huffing as she thrusts open the next door she sees with a bit more force than necessary. The door slams against the wall, hard enough that it bounces back and nearly closes on her all over again. She stops it with a foot, leaning in to peer around the small, bare room. It must have belonged to a servant.

 _Spiders,_ she thinks again, still irritated even as she moves to turn the room upside down. She has no idea where she might find anything relevant. Bartholo could have been staying in any room in this gods-forsaken mansion. She’ll have to search all of them.

 _Is he just going to throw cheap scares at me all night?_ She wonders, more annoyed with him than anything else.

It’s not that she _wants_ him to try harder, necessarily – she’d rather figure out what the hell was going on here and leave, preferably with no more incidents for the rest of the night.

But, hell. If he was going to throw those kinds of illusions at her, couldn’t he come up with something she hasn’t seen a thousand times in campfire stories? Shadowmen, apparitions lurking in dark hallways, _spiders_ crawling all over you? For a god whose domain was so incredibly dark, she’s almost disappointed in his lack of originality. How had he even risen to godhood with that kind of bullshit under his sleeve? Even Lamae had been scarier than this whole mansion had been so far.

Finding nothing, Eres leaves the room, purposefully leaving the door open behind her so she knows which rooms she’s checked. She takes several steps away, then turns back, watching it, waiting to see if it will close on its own.

It doesn’t.

“Oh, so _that’s_ too unoriginal for you.” Eres rolls her eyes, turning, and goes to the next room, and the next, and the next.

She searches through four more rooms in complete silence, with not a single interruption. With her magelight, even the dark corridors and unlit, window-less rooms don’t seem as creepy as they could have. By the fifth room, she’s almost casual about it, waltzing into the room without a care, Dawnbreaker sheathed and thrumming softly against her back, soft enough that she knows nothing is near but strong enough that she can still feel it.

The sixth room, she finally finds Bartholo’s—or what may have been his room, or at least a room he had spent some time in. Eres finds a small knapsack with Vigilant’s robes tucked under the bed near the headboard. A little carved figurine of Stendarr’s personage rests at the top of that headboard, just above where Bartholo might have laid his head at night. On the desk is a scattering of parchments, some with shoddily-illustrated diagrams, others with scrawled notes in both shorthand and longer, more detailed reports.

Eres closes the door behind her, and takes a seat at his desk.

Many of the short notes are written in coded shorthand that she can’t hope to decipher, only understanding one out of every few words he writes. She tosses those aside, hoping they’re not too important.

There are several pages of sketches—drawings of who she assumes is the Lady Helena before her death, then Julius, and Marcus, a very poorly drawn Khajiit labeled with “M’zaq”, a diagram of the totem she’d found with _“blood curse”_ written at the top of the paper. She shuffles through several more nondescript drawings, the ballroom, sketched in such a way that it looks more like something he’d done of his own will than for the sake of his investigation, much more detailed and artistic than those he had drawn of the Bruiants. She tucks that paper away, too, and the next one makes her heart skip a beat.

She can’t even tell what it _is_.

It looks—it looks _almost_ human, kind of. It has two legs, she thinks, in a dress, and arms at either side of its torso. One of the arms is noticeably longer than the other, colored in a deep black, and much of the body is stained a deep burgundy—not quite the color of blood but something like it, and when she looks, she sees a half-empty bottle of dark red wine sitting on the corner of the desk. Bartholo must not have had red paint, and had settled for the next best thing.

The beast’s head is a crown of elongated spikes rising up from the head in a star-like shape that looks almost like it could have been hair, if someone had pulled each lock out and frozen it in place, but the entire face and the little spikes of hair-like things are stained the same deep red. There’s no eyes or face that she can see.

On that same paper, a bit smaller, there is another drawing of another creature, something like a woman if she had been wrapped and bound in twine like a roast, hunched to one side with her legs bowed together, leaning slightly forward, head tilted until it’s nearly parallel to the ground, eyes blackened. Instead of arms, Bartholo had drawn sleeves, coming from the shoulders to wrap around the waist like one of the asylum jackets they used for patients who were a danger to themselves, except it looks like her entire torso twists around with it and bends over itself in the awkwardness of the position. This one has a face, and long, stringy dark hair falling into the blacked-out eyes.

At the bottom, Bartholo has only written a single name: _Helena_.

Unsettled, Eres pushes that paper to the side for later. She doesn’t know which possibility is worse: that Bartholo had seen such monstrous creatures, or that he had simply come up with such disturbing drawings out of his own twisted imagination. She hopes for the latter.

There’s another drawing of Julius, this time with a dark shadow behind him too tall to have come from himself, a horn on either side of its blurred, dark head. She sets that one aside, too, her unease growing.

Had Bartholo simply read Marcus’ journal as well, and decided to draw the imagery Marcus had described his dream? Or had he seen it as well? Would he have seen it in his dreams, too? Or with his own eyes, in the waking world?

Another drawing, and another, and another—each of them more disturbing than the last. Some are just silhouettes of dark figures, others are more detailed, with both faded lines and fresh, bolder ones, like he’d come back to the same drawings over and over to perfect them or correct what he’d mistaken. There’s one that looks like a floating head, bulbous, bloodied arms and clawed fingers erupting from the back of the skull, jaw open menacingly, dark holes for eyes.

More of Julius and Helena, the strokes of the sketches increasingly erratic and hurried, and then there is no more.

Eres sets those drawings of Julius and Helena on top of the other two she’d set aside as well, and tucks the rest of them back into the desk. On an afterthought, she gathers the notes in shorthand and tucks them into that same drawer, too, as well as useless to her without being able to read them.

Eres’ mouth cracks open into a yawn. It had been a long ride in that carriage, and she’d slept some of the way, but sleeping in a carriage is never quite restful. She’s tired all the same, exhaustion seeping deep into her muscles.

She rubs her eyes, anyways, using a bit of magic to chill the water in her canteen as she drinks it to wake herself up a little more, and she leans back over the parchment scattered across Bartholo’s desk.

_Arrived late last night. The servant, M’zaq, showed me around the mansion. I did a routine inspection, and found nothing out of order. I will make a more thorough inspection in the morning and speak with the witnesses._

_Lord Marcus has asked me to examine his boy, but he won’t come anywhere near me. Avoids me at all costs. Something about that boy doesn’t sit right with me. I’ll have to keep an eye on him. Nothing unusual yet. Mansion seems normal._

_Accident today in the kitchens. A shelf above the stove fell apart suddenly. Two of the servants have injuries—a concussion and a broken wrist, but no serious injuries or casualties. I inspected the shelf myself once we got the kitchen squared away. It looks like the bolts were purposefully loosened by someone. Julius was nearby at the time, but he’s too short to have reached it, and the bolts are welded. He couldn’t have done it. Marcus says accidents like this have been happening for months, since just before his wife’s disappearance, and they increased in frequency once the boy was found in the woods._

_Sat down with Marcus. He told me what his son used to be like before. Says Julius’ personality has become darker, quieter, called him ‘sinister’ and ‘evil’. I tried to assure him that children sometimes react in strange ways to trauma, but I’ve been keeping an eye on Julius. He’s done nothing strange lately. Still avoids me._

_I fear Marcus is right about this place. I was sitting in the lounge room with one of the housekeepers when we heard screaming and barking coming from the courtyard. By the time we got outside, the dogs had ripped the butler Lamthor near to shreds. Marcus tried to call them off but they wouldn’t listen – I had to use a spell to calm them. I’ve been around those dogs since I got here and not once have they shown any signs of aggression. As soon as I calmed them they started whining and crying. I even tested them both for diseases or madness, but I think someone may have bewitched them with a frenzy spell to make them attack the butler. Marcus said there’s no one on his estate that has any skill in magic._

_Five days since Lamthor, and the maid Patricia was found by that elf butler, Bhal, hanging from the rafters in her room. Marcus insists she was a cheerful girl who would not have done such a thing and risked Arkay’s wrath. I fear whatever curse lays on this place may be much stronger than anticipated._

_Summil the cook attacked Marcus with a meat cleaver simply for asking that his steak be cooked a little longer. Marcus took a deep gash to the arm, but the healers managed to handle it. I and two of the landscapers managed to restrain Summil. Marcus did not want to take it to the legion and instead locked him in the storeroom, hoping he might calm and tell us why he’d attacked him later._

_Marcus says he hears crawling outside of his room at night. I started patrolling the halls after dark but haven’t found or heard anything unusual. I think his paranoia might be getting to him._

_Summil is dead. Skeevers somehow got into the storeroom and ate him alive. This much misfortune in one place, in this short a time, is not the result of some ordinary curse. This powerful a curse must have been placed through some kind of conduit or idol of power. I’m going to start a search of the mansion top to bottom to see if I can locate whatever might be causing it. I believe whatever evil spirit may be here had only been lying in wait, hoping I would leave. When I did not, it lost its patience and began to kill again._

_I found a small totem behind one of the shelves in the storeroom, just feet away from where Summil had died. Judging by its appearance, it is an idol of Molag Bal. A very strong blood curse hangs over it, though I can’t yet tell who crafted it. I will try to dispel the totem tonight._

_I was able to dispel the totem overnight, though it took many hours and several spells. The totem rusted when I was finished, and the dark energy I felt from it faded away. The curse placed upon it was unusual. It was so full of hatred and anger that it made me ill. Even stranger, I have only heard of blood curses like this from the Ayleid, who would use their own life forces to curse their enemies. Given its nature and strength, whoever laid the curse must be paying a steep price. What could drive a man so far?_

_Dispelling the Totem took more out of me than I expected. I slept for nearly three days without waking. I woke once only to eat and fell asleep again for another day. But I don’t believe that totem is the only one – when I was dispelling it, I could feel its link to others within its power, amplifying its strength. I believe there must be at least four or five more of them somewhere within the mansion. I don’t know if I am strong enough to dispel them all on my own, so I’ve sent word back to the tower for aid._

And they hadn’t sent it. Eres’ jaw tightens, remembering what Gwyneth had said before she’d left—the Vigilants at the Tower hadn’t sent anyone back to the mansion after Bartholo had left. Bartholo had sent back word asking for their help and they’d ignored his requests.

Bartholo hadn’t gone missing. They’d left him to die.

_I couldn’t dispel the second totem completely and it regained its power and started making this deep humming sound all around me. I can feel its influence crawling over my skin. I keep hearing things in the hall outside but I locked myself in and I don’t think they can get me here_

_if you find this but not me I am probably dead somewhere and the curse has killed me please find my body and burn me with stendarr’s blessing I don’t want them to have me. don’t be stupid like I was just turn around and leave if you can everyone will die here anyways and then the curse will be done it can’t leave the mansion and neither can you_

_please send my pension to solitude jarl will know say it’s for bartholo’s family and that I love them goodbye_

Eres almost doesn’t want to look at the final page. Reading the last words of a dying, terrified man has never been something she wanted to experience. Worse is knowing that he might have thought he would be rescued, right up until the end. He’d hoped for something that would have never come.

But she has to. Even his rambling, frantic scrawls on the last pages might tell her something that can help her. Bartholo’s last words may be the best preparation she can get for what she might face within this place. She drops the man’s final goodbye on the pile of notes to her right, and holds the final one under the light of her spell.

**_don’t look at her just run_ **


	9. Night Terrors

ACT IV  
CHAPTER IX  
NIGHT TERRORS

Eres does not have a nightmare, but something wakes her in the middle of the night all the same. One moment she is sleeping, not quite restfully but sleeping all the same – and the next her eyes are open, staring at the ceiling, aware that something has awakened her but with no knowledge of what it was.

For a long moment, Eres lies there, completely still, eyes fixed on the ceiling above her head, ears perked. For a long moment, there is nothing – nothing but the sound of her own breathing, the steady tick of a grandfather clock down the hallway, the rustling of leaves in the wind outside. The air in Bartholo’s room is still, silent, undisturbed.

But something had woke her. She had been sleeping, and then suddenly she had not been, and something must have caused it.

Eres listens for a moment more, and yet still, she hears nothing at all.

Sighing, she closes her eyes, turning onto her side. Tries to find sleep once more – she has totems to find tomorrow, curses to break, and she must be well rested if she plans to be worth anything at all in the morning. It’s not the first time she has been restless in the night, and the mansion and all that seemed to be within it are more than enough reason for her to sleep poorly.

Her heart flutters. It races, _pounding_ against her ribcage. She feels not just the pounding in her chest but even in the side of her neck where her pulse is strongest, the blood in her veins bounding until she can feel where her neck presses against the fabric of the pillow beneath her head, until she can hear nothing but the sound of her own heartbeat in her ears.

She takes a deep breath, then another, willing her heart to slow. Sleep is just at the edge of her mind, a soft wisp of a curtain that brushes over her in the moments where she feels like she might be able to sleep through it, but every time she feels that brush, that barely-there sensation of her waking mind beginning to drift into sleep, her heart lurches in her chest once more, her breath stuttering as she inhales against the shock of it.

Eres sits up. She reaches to her neck, pressing chilled fingers to the side of her throat, just beneath her jaw. Her pulse beats so strongly there that it feels like her blood just might burst free of the vein itself, the pounding harsh against her fingertips.

Her chest tightens, somehow feeling both light and constricted at once, and Eres straightens her spine, breathes deeply—or she tries, she does, but her lungs fill halfway and then simply _stop_ , like she can hold no more. She knows that she _can_ , but her body refuses to listen, refuses to cooperate. It feels like her lungs have simply forgotten how to expand properly, and now she can only fill them with just enough air not to suffocate, but not enough to quite feel like she’s breathing at all—and that racing of her pulse keeps pounding between her ears, in her neck, in her chest—she can even feel it in her wrist, her fingers, everywhere.

Her hand trembles where it rests, still pressed against the skin of her neck. She lowers it, holding it in front of her, and then she can _see_ the tremble, the tremor that makes her hand shake where she holds it, unable to still it.

She tries to remember when she’d last eaten, and can’t.

Eres leans over the side of the bed, hauling her pack from where she’d left it, and digs through it until she finds the pouch full of smoked jerky she always keeps with her for times when she can’t afford to hunt or find something real to eat on her travels. With hands that still shake, Eres eats several pieces, despite that her stomach does not growl and she does not feel dizzy.

And then she waits, silent in the darkness of Bartholo’s room, for the symptoms to fade.

Instead of ridding herself of them, she only adds nausea to the list.

Eres lays back down. It’s probably her mind playing tricks on her—or perhaps another of Molag Bal’s illusions, meant to set her on edge. All she has to do is rest, sleep until dawn. Once the sun rises, even the unease she feels now will fade with the light of day.

She closes her eyes, clasping her hands together over her stomach, and tries to meditate as the Greybeards had taught her.

 _In_ , she thinks, and counts for five seconds as she inhales. She can only make it to three. She adjusts. Holds for three seconds. Exhales slowly for another three seconds. Repeat.

Her mind lurches again, mere minutes later as she begins to drift, pulse jumping, breath catching. She’d nearly fallen asleep again. She’d been so close, she _knows_ that—but her body jolts her from it every time, refusing to allow her that peace.

Again, Eres tries. Again, her mind starts her awake before she can fall into a proper sleep, alarm bells ringing somewhere in the back of her mind.

And somehow, Eres knows what it means, then.

She sits up. She gets out of the bed, finds Dawnbreaker leaning against the dresser beside the bed, and she pulls it from its sheath just enough so that the light from the gem near-blinds her, bathing the room in fluorescent light in a wide sphere. Holding the hilt in her hands, she feels its incessant thrum against her fingers, a near constant since entering the mansion and finding that first totem—only now that thrumming seems to pulsate, growing stronger and fainter in cycles, so rhythmic that she could have kept time with it.

It thrums strongly for just a few seconds, then tapers, fading to its usual soft, barely-there hum. It stays like that for longer, nearly twenty seconds by her count, and then she feels it strengthening again, reaching a peak in another few seconds, and then beginning to taper once more.

Eres’ brow furrows.

Meridia’s blade has been acting strangely since she’d first spotted the shadow-that-was-Marcus. Dawnbreaker had always functioned so systematically, so routinely, that she had always been able to rely on its predictions and behavior—a thrum meant there was undead nearby. A strong, keening whine meant vampires. The loud, near deafening shrill meant Molag Bal was near. Whenever she’d closed in on a target, the thrum always got stronger. And when that threat was gone, so too would be that constant vibration.

Eres had expected Dawnbreaker to react in a place like this. She is not surprised that it is active, in general—but rather, suspicious of just _how_ it is acting.

Eres swallows, turning slowly towards the door to the halls just outside.

Dawnbreaker isn’t acting strangely because of her. It’s not acting strangely because of the mansion, either. It’s not responding to _her_ movement.

It’s responding to something else’s.

Something out there that is moving, back and forth, Dawnbreaker’s telltale hum strengthening as it gets closer, fading as it ventures further away.

Only—it’s not something simply coming and going. If Eres holds Dawnbreaker in her hands, paying close attention to the way it tapers and peaks, she can make an educated enough guess at what it must be reacting to. The peak in the middle, the way it tapers just before and after…

Something out there is pacing, one way and then the next, close enough that Dawnbreaker reacts to its presence as it nears her and then fades slowly away and back again. 

Eres holds herself as still as she can manage—those tremors won’t stop, even Dawnbreaker shakes in her grip ever so slightly, held aloft in front of her—and closes her eyes, focusing on her hearing. She blocks out the sound of her own heart, of her own breathing, of the rustle of the leaves outside, of the howling wind.

Closer, she listens, closer still.

The thrum starts to strengthen against her fingers. She blocks that out, too, and hears—something, something just far enough away or just quiet enough that she can’t tell quite what it is. Something like—like a rustling, a shuffling, something soft moving against something harder, like—

Like something walking with a shuffling step, like something half-crawling, like something moving in a way that’s not quite human, just outside in the halls, shambling up and down the corridor, coming to her door and passing it and then doubling back all over again like it waits for her to leave, like it’s impatient, like it’s stalking its prey, waiting for the right time to—

 _No_.

Eres closes her fist around the hilt, tightening her fingers around it until the very joints ache. The pacing taper of Dawnbreaker’s soft thrum continues, undeterred.

Eres stares at the door, feeling the bubble of anxiety and paranoia beneath her skin, seeping into her very pores.

 _No_ , she thinks again. She’s not going to let this get to her. She’s just going to—she’s just going to stand here, and that—whatever it is out there, it can come to her, and she’ll be ready. She has Dawnbreaker, she has her armor, she can fight whatever it is there and there’s not been an undead yet that Dawnbreaker hasn’t been able to handle.

She’s fine.

She’s _fine_.

Eres draws Dawnbreaker, tossing the sheath onto the bed behind her. She stands there, in the center of the room, facing the door, Dawnbreaker held in both hands to steady it, heart in her throat, lungs aching—and she waits.

She can _almost_ track it with her eyes—follow the sound of its shuffling gait and Dawnbreaker’s tapering hum as it paces up and down the long hall just outside. Back and forth it goes, unendingly, that same shambling, slow pace—and every so often she can almost swear she hears it breathing, a deep, croaking rattle like that of a dying man drowning in his own blood.

She’s not _afraid_ , she’s just—she’s unsettled. She’s in an unfamiliar place. A place that has killed at least five people, if not more. A place that is bound with a powerful blood curse under Molag Bal’s own domain. A place she’s already seen apparitions and illusions and dead bodies. A place where another Vigilant had encountered something beyond him, something that had killed him, too—after it had near driven him mad.

She’s right to be a bit unsettled. That’s just her instincts kicking in, her intuition—her so-called sixth sense that says, _‘Hey. Stay on your guard.’_

That’s natural.

It’s not that she’s afraid, she’s just—healthily cautious.

After some time, she tires of standing, and so she pulls out the chair by the desk and it’s there she sits, facing the door, Dawnbreaker laid across her knees, one hand still wrapped loosely around its hilt. She sits there, in that position, with shortened breath and a racing heart that just won’t _stop_ no matter what she tries, it won’t stop—but, she sits there.

She sits there all night.

Eres doesn’t even have to try not to fall asleep. Any time she gets close, her body wakes her on its own, her mind doing that lurching like she’s just woken from a dream about falling, like it’s forgotten that she’s safe and _not_ in immediate danger of dying. And then the vigil begins anew until the next time she starts to drift off and her subconscious rallies against it, refusing to allow her to be anything less than on a razor’s edge of alertness.

It’s only a few hours—it could only have been a few hours, given that they’d arrived here after nightfall and then she’d spent some time looking around and reading Bartholo’s notes before she even thought of trying to sleep, and given that she’d even managed to sleep a little bit before the paranoia got to her.

It could only have been a few short hours, but by the time the first rays of dawn’s light begins to stream into the room from its solitary window, it feels like the longest night of her life.

Nearly a full half hour passes. She feels the sun on her back—not hot, of course, but just the slightest bit of warmth compared to the rest of her—and it’s with that warmth that she raises her head, suddenly _present_ in a way she had not been during the night. She feels—she feels her pulse, now, but it’s started to calm, slowing within her chest, softening in her neck. Her breaths still feel short, still not-quite-filling, but… _better_ , somehow, in their own way.

And Dawnbreaker—she waits, for several minutes, even, but the tapering is gone. It is merely back to its prior constant, just the ghost of a vibration against her skin. When she listens, closing her eyes for just a moment, she can’t hear it anymore—not that soft, shambling gait, not the whisper of a death rattle in the distance, somewhere muffled beyond the walls of this room. She hears nothing at all.

At once, Eres sags into the seat, her entire body feeling—weary. Exhausted. She feels as though she’s climbed High Hrothgar all over again, that same bone deep tiredness that had made her feel dead on her feet that first night in the temple, but this time it’s not so much a physical soreness as it is merely just a sort of mental exhaustion that _manifests_ somewhere between her body and mind, engulfing her entire person.

It’s logical, if she thinks about it.

She’d spent hours in that state, and now that she’s able to think without the racing of her heart pounding in her skull, she knows: that was adrenaline she’d been feeling, then. It must have been, or something very near to it—her body had set itself at its highest possible state of alert without her permission, and it had _stayed_ that way for hours on end with no reprieve.

It’s no wonder at all she feels like she could sleep for days, if she tried.

But the thought of sleep is the furthest thing from her mind.

She wants to _get out_.

If she hurries, if she really pushes it, maybe she can find all the totems before nightfall, and get the fuck out of this mansion before she has to spend even one more night in it. She doesn’t know if she _can_ spend another night in it—what else could have triggered such a long stay of adrenaline-induced, muted panic, if not for _something_ in her knowing that sleeping would be a death sentence?

Eres isn’t even sure how she knows it. It’s not even merely a suspicion, not the guesstimate of, ‘It was adrenaline, and therefore I must have felt endangered somehow’, but somewhere deep in her mind there is the uncontested knowledge, the absolute known _fact_ that, had she fallen asleep again that night, she would not have opened her eyes ever again.

But—what could have caused that reaction?

Wearily, Eres climbs to her feet, and moves to get dressed. Her limbs feel slow and awkward, heavy and weakened by her exhaustion. Her mind feels even more sluggish, as though her thoughts move through molasses.

What could her body have been aware of that she was not? Had there been something, deep in her subconscious, in her unconscious mind, that had sensed the danger surrounding her and jolted her out of sleep, that had triggered that cascade of adrenaline into her veins? _How_ could she have been aware of something unconsciously when she had not even known it was there?

Perhaps it was her magic. She’d felt that first totem’s curse prying at her own mana, at the very essence of herself deep inside. Perhaps that is what had triggered it—perhaps another totem had reached for her in the night, prodding when her guard was down, hoping to somehow ruin her before she ever had the chance to defend herself.

“Cheater,” she mutters to herself, and she can hardly bring herself to even speak _that_ little. Can hardly bring herself to find the same irritation and even vague amusement that she had had the day before—she’s too tired, too on edge, too ready to get the fuck out to bother.

Eres replaces Dawnbreaker’s sheath upon her back, but she holds the blade in her hand. She makes sure that she’s grabbed all of the notes she’d found from Bartholo and placed them safely in her bag in case she needed them later, and then, tiredly, she turns to open the door.

For just an instant, her heart jumps back into her throat, but even her brief fear of what might be waiting outside her door isn’t enough to pull that adrenaline back up again, her body far too tired and reserves far too tapped to find it.

But the hall is empty. There’s not even any sign that anything had been amiss the night before—no blood trails, no strange shadows, not even the smell of sulfur that might have accompanied a summoned daedra or other dark entity.

There’s nothing at all except the hall itself, the rows of doors on either side, some opened and some not, and her, standing in the doorway of Bartholo’s old room, peering one way and then the other.

Eres adjusts her grip on Dawnbreaker once more. She frowns, switches hands to wipe the sweat from her palm on her robe, and then switches back. Her grip firms around the hilt, around the ghost of its undead-perceiving hum.

“Just four more,” she tells herself quietly, leaving Bartholo’s door open behind her.

Four more and she can get out of here. Four more and she’ll never have to see this place again.

She can do that. She has at least twelve hours before the sun sets. She can manage four totems in twelve hours, easily. Three hours per totem—that’s a lot of time even for someone as tired as she is. She’ll be fine. She’s always fine.

She’s _fine_.

Just three doors down from Bartholo’s room, Eres stumbles upon a locked door. She is suddenly glad that she had had the foresight to search Marcus for his set of keys. Without Inigo’s skill in lockpicking, she would have wasted precious time trying to pick the lock herself – time she could not afford to waste when she is on a deadline. It still takes her seven tries to locate the correct key, but even with those few minutes wasted, it is a much quicker thing than had she had to pick the lock herself.

It appears to be another servant’s room, just as plain and bare as others she had seen, save for the lute resting on one of the dressers near the bed—the bed, which is covered with a splattering of a large volume of blood. Dawnbreaker begins to hum strongly against her back, strengthening when she steps closer to the bed.

It’s there that she finds the next totem, hidden just behind the headboard, doused in the same half-dried blood as the first one had been. This one, too, she can feel the dark energy pouring out of, reaching for her.

She remembers Bartholo, just as she raises her foot to stomp on it.

_‘I failed to completely dispel the second totem…’_

Eres sets her foot back down, frowning as she draws Dawnbreaker just to be safe. The first totem, she’d destroyed—but what if she had done it _wrong_? What if breaking the totem was not truly dispelling it, but—merely releasing it into the world, somehow? Or, because there were four others, what if she had merely released the power of that totem and dispersed into the others, making them stronger?

Paranoia crawls beneath her skin, but she sees nothing when she looks over her shoulder. She hears nothing in the halls, not like she had the night before. She feels no skittering across her skin, as she had with the first totem. She hears the deep, foreboding hum of the totem’s power—and Dawnbreaker’s higher toned one, just above it, almost harmonizing alongside it.

Fuck.

She doesn’t know what spells Bartholo had used to dispel the totems. She doesn’t know any curse-breaking spells _at all_ —that kind of thing had never been in her repertoire, even as a Vigilant. She’d never encountered curses often enough, aside from the one time Stendarr himself had cursed her, and there was nothing she could have done for _that_. Niu certainly hadn’t taught her curse-breaking as a child—such a thing was hardly something even Gifted noble children were taught. What school would that even be? Alteration? Restoration, maybe?

But… Perhaps, with Dawnbreaker…

She holds Dawnbreaker in her hands, brow furrowing. Aside from the Dawnbreaker’s perceptive humming or shrill, and the singular time against Molag Bal himself, Meridia had never spoken to her through this blade. Would Meridia’s power even be enough to break such a powerful curse? Was it even something Meridia could _do_ to begin with?

A Blood Curse—that was _dark_ magic, to be sure, but would it be considered close enough to Meridia’s domain of influence for her to be able to dispel it with her power?

Even if it were so, as much as Meridia does seem to hate Molag Bal, and as much as she does seem to be one of few Princes who can be considered on the side of _good_ and _light_ —Eres is not sure that mixing her power against the very totems that had resulted in the death of so many people would be a good idea. What if it backfired, somehow? Or, what if destroying the totem with the sword was no better than crushing it under her boot?

Eres runs a hand through her hair, hesitant. She’s not sure. If only she could be _sure_.

And—why doesn’t this totem seem to be affecting her like the other one had? Or is it—is it truly not affecting her, or can she just not _tell_ it’s affecting her?

Eres lowers Dawnbreaker, and reaches for the horn at her belt, holding each in one hand.

Stendarr and Meridia.

It felt like so long ago that they had lent her their power to fight against Molag Bal under the Beacon. Were it not for their aid, she would have been dead long ago. She hadn’t asked for their help since. She hadn’t even asked for their help _then_ , really—they had simply offered it, because, she supposed, they knew how high the stakes were with Molag Bal being summoned in such a form to Tamriel—but, would these stakes be considered high?

Would they even listen to her?

It wouldn’t hurt to try, would it?

Eres feels a bit silly, holding their artifacts in her hands, praying to Gods she’s not even sure will hear her—or if they’ll even bother to help her, if they did.

 _I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t_ —

If she wasn’t desperate. That’s the word she’s looking for. If she wants to have any chance of them helping her, she at least has to admit that to herself. She’s fucked. And yes, she’s a little desperate. She’s out of her depth.

 _Help me_ , she thinks fiercely, staring at that totem like it might show her the answer if she looks hard enough. _Help me get out of here._

Meridia’s blade—does the gem brighten for a moment, or is that just what she _wants_ to see? Meridia doesn’t speak to her—she’d have recognized that bellowing voice anywhere. There’s nothing, aside from that short instant of a brightening that could as well have been her imagination. Even if it hadn’t been, she has no idea what the fuck that could mean. Why couldn’t Gods ever say things _plainly_? A simple yes or no would have sufficed.

As if in answer, she hears:

_‘Yes.’_

But it’s not Meridia she hears—not a woman at all, but a man, stern and firm, resolute. The horn in her hand warms. And there’s nothing else.

Eres stands there for a moment, perplexed. Perhaps she should have been more clear on the whole – ‘yes or no would suffice’ thing. If Stendarr’s going to help her, she needs to know _how_.

A whisper.

Eres spins, expecting to find someone behind her, but no—she can _hear_ whispering, but she can’t pinpoint it. It’s not behind her, it’s not even really… around her, actually. But—it’s somewhere nearby like…

Eres looks down. The horn in her hand is still warm to the touch.

…Could it?

Eres lifts the horn closer to her face, tilts her head to point her ear toward the opening of the hollow in the horn, and—

 _Whispers_.

She hears them, near indiscernible even when she presses the horn close, but, they’re _whispers_ , voices—voices that sound a bit like people, murmuring at a distance. They’re somehow a quiet cacophony, all of them speaking over each other even as they speak the same words to her, over and over, in hushed little voices like they fear they’ll be caught:

_“Darkness wanes where the light of dawn breaks…”_

Eres pulls the horn back down, biting her lip to stop from cursing aloud. _You could have just **said** so, _she thinks, glaring briefly down at Dawnbreaker in her hands. If Meridia had just _said_ —fucking gods and their goddamned cryptic messages.

“Light of dawn, then…” Eres turns the gem so that it points at the totem on the ground, watches as the light brightens, squinting against its sudden brightness.

Something _hisses_ and _yowls_ under its light and she hears not just the sounds of something animalistic in pain but also the sound of something singing, burning, and the smell of something like an acrid, putrid smoke filling the air in front of her. She claps a hand to her nose, watching as a little plume of blackish red smoke curls upward from the totem.

The hisses and howls turn into _screams_ —not the screams of animals but that of humans, like she’d opened the door to the gates of some hellish dimension where thousands of voices screamed in agony and fear and _fury_ —the sound grates against her ears, piercingly loud, and—

And then it stops.

All at once, there is nothing. Not the hissing or howling, not the tormented screams, not the sound of something simmering or burning, not even the smell of that putrid smoke in the air as the totem rusted away beneath the light of Dawnbreaker’s gem.

Nothing.

Slowly, Eres sheathes it as its light dims ever so slightly.

Just as Bartholo had described in his notes, the totem had turned an almost rusty-looking brownish color, the painted wood cracking at the seams like it had been under immense heat and expanded too suddenly for the wood to retain its shape. The largest of those cracks is right down the center of that ugly pincered head.

The second totem is dispelled.

Fortunately.

Unfortunately, she can still hear Stendarr’s whispering voices, directing her urgently: _Helena_. _Heeeeleeeeenaaaa_.

“You could have given me a muzzle for it,” she mutters, without much bite. The whispers are annoying, always in the back of her mind, but at least she has an idea of where to go next. Or at least, she hopes that’s what the voices are telling her, and not that Helena’s around the next corner waiting to kill her or something.

Just to be safe, Eres closes the door to the bedroom and levers the desk chair against it before turning to search the rest of the room.

Now that the totem is properly dispelled, Eres treats this room like any other, searching in any place she thinks someone might have hid something – under the bed—nothing there but the old rusted totem and dried blood—in the wardrobe, shaking out the clothes in dressers in case whoever had been there might have hidden something in the folds of fabric. She opens the books on the bookshelves, turning them upside down as she holds them open and shakes. She uses magelight to peer behind the heavy dressers and the desk, in case she might find a totem hiding there.

Finally, she gets on her knees, and peeks under—and finds two little notes slid under the bookshelf. It takes some maneuvering to get them out – whoever had placed them there either had wanted to make sure no one would be able to get to them, or they had simply fallen and slid underneath without their knowledge, as both of the little sheets of parchment are tucked deep underneath the bottom shelf of the bookcase where she can only just fit her fingers in up to her knuckles before she can move no further.

It would be her luck, of course, that she spends all this time on two little notes that might be nothing more than idle musings, wholly unrelated to her little investigation. But anything, even things that might seem to mean nothing, could be important.

In the end, she uses her silver sword to slide it beneath the dresser and scrape against the stone flooring to pull the notes toward her. It’s far more irritating a process than it needs to be, and by the time she manages to bring both of them out from under the shelf, she’s certain she’s blunted the sword near to useless. She tucks it back in its sheath, all the same—she doubts she will use it when she has Dawnbreaker, especially in a place like this.

 _Bhal_ , the first note begins, and she’s no longer irritated about the time she spent on fishing them out—this is the servant that had locked her in.

_Please don’t tell such strange stories to the young master. I’m not saying this because you are Ayleid. You know I have no issue with your kind. But in the education of a noble, there is simply no place for black magic and people that have long since passed. Even if there were need for such education, Julius has never expressed any sign of a magical gift, nor has anyone else within the Bruiant family. I do not want you to tell him such things in the future, filling his head with ideas of grandeur he cannot hope to achieve – especially that of such a dark nature. I only want the best for the boy, as I am sure you do as well. –Lamthor._

_Dear Bhal_ , reads the second, _I am very scared of the young master. Am I wrong? Those dark eyes of his. I feel as if I’m looking right into the gates of Oblivion when he looks at me. I feel like such a silly little girl for being so afraid of a little boy, but I tremble whenever he looks at me. Please, Bhal, would you chase my fears away tonight as well? Only your strong arms seem able to calm this trembling. –Patricia._

Alright. Decidedly less useful than the first note, Eres decides, and she stuffs that deep into her pack. The other, she places in the same pocket of her bag that she had kept the other important ones she’d found. She’s at least fairly certain that the suggestive little love note has little to do with the totems’ curse, even if it _is_ Bhal who is in question.

But. She must assume that Bhal is the agent of Molag Bal—it makes the most sense, of course, and it is so painfully obvious so as to seem like a trick, but all evidence so far has pointed to him as the catalyst for everything within the mansion. Marcus had hired this Bhal, sometime following the return of Julius after he and his mother had disappeared.

Marcus had mentioned him in his journal, hadn’t he? That Julius had taken to him immediately. And then this note from the butler Lamthor—wasn’t he the one who had been torn apart by the Bruiant’s own hounds? What kind of “black magic” had Bhal been telling Julius of?

Was it Julius, then, who had placed the totems?

Or, Eres considers, was it possible that all of it was a red herring, and there is someone else to blame for everything within the house, and Molag Bal only wants her to _believe_ that it’s Julius? It certainly wouldn’t be out of his realm to deceive her in such a way, especially if he wanted to keep her on edge.

Perhaps Julius and Bhal are as the summoner and her minions had been—Julius merely a victim of a manipulation from an agent of Molag Bal, his family being torn apart in the process.

The boy was only twelve, after all, at most. A kid that age just couldn’t be capable of this much…disaster and darkness. How could a twelve year old have enough darkness within him to have laid such a powerful curse as this one? It _has_ to be Bhal. She should have stabbed him when she had the chance. She’d known there was something off about him.

 _‘Helena…_ ’

“Alright,” she says, to the hushed whispers from the horn. “I hear you.”

Finished with the room, anyways, Eres turns, and leaves Bhal’s room behind. She continues down that corridor in much the same way she has since the beginning, searching each room she encounters as methodically as possible, but the voices only get more agitated the longer she spends in each room.

When she reaches the stairs, she feels a pull—and follows it upstairs to the second floor. She turns down a hall, allowing that pull to lead her, and there’s Julius—or his ghost, or the spirit masquerading as him, whichever it is—standing at the end of the corridor. This time when he turns to enter the room to his left, he walks right through a closed door.

Eres reaches it, and pushes. Locked. It takes her only three tries to find the right key this time, and the door swings open in front of her.

She sees Julius in the middle of the room for only a _blink_ of time, disappearing before she can even register that he’d been standing there.

This room is much larger than any of the others had been, clearly having belonged to someone other than a servant. It is near three times as big as the rooms she’d seen on the first floor, closer in size to Marcus’ office downstairs that Julius had first led her to. Only, instead of the single desk and bookshelves lining the walls, this room has a very different feel to it.

There is a little toy carriage turned on its side next to a dresser, little felt-made horses attached to its lead. The shelf against the wall by the door she’d entered has a collection of all sorts of toys upon it, _expensive_ toys, like imitations of little dwarven spheres and fully posable wooden dolls with such finely applied paint that they almost look like real soldiers, shrunk to miniature sizes.

One of the dressers is splattered with blood, as is the bed she can see from just behind a bookshelf that divides the play area from the sleeping area—but when she presses her fingers against Dawnbreaker’s hilt, she does not feel the strengthening thrum that would indicate the presence of a totem.

Still, she begins her search through the room, checking the obvious areas first—and finding nothing. She’s at the bookshelf, shaking out the short books as she had in the last room she’d searched, when she sees it:

A book much thicker than the others, certainly not intended for children given its density, but it sits in prominent place upon the shelf, a little silken bound bookmark nestled between its pages. From the weathered look to its binding and the way the letters of the title have faded towards the middle crease, it’s plain the book has been especially well worn, opened many times to have caused such wear.

But—assuming this is Julius’ room, what would a kid be reading a book called _Visions at Malada_ for?

Frowning, Eres takes the book down and opens it to the page that had been marked with the silk cord.

_Prophet Marukh the Imga drank cold, milky water in the Ayleid temple of Malada and received the following vision:_

_1 At first, the pure blood was stolen.  
tried to console her tears with the dagger.  
but there was no end to the blood and only rust covered the Scythe of Arkay. _

_2 The pilgrim burned and the Stone fell from his pocket  
still blazing, a priest picked it up and burned himself  
the burn pulls a veil from the gaze of Auri-El_

_3 First the Father swallowed the Stone, then the mother and daughter followed him.  
Their blood grew boiling hot, but their hearts turned cold as ice.  
And the love of Mara knew its limits then. _

_4 The Stone lent itself to the voice of a Bard and sang a song to the crazy Cat King.  
At the end of the song a city sank in the red mist.  
The breeze stopped and the voice of Kynareth died away. _

_5 The Stone fell into the hands of an inquisitor.  
Those who kissed her feet also gathered the firewood beneath her.  
Mara wept, but the flames only rose higher.  
  
6 The Stone came to rest at the feet of a grave keeper.  
He stumbled over the Stone and crushed in the skull of a grave robber.  
Her grave was stained with blood and the grave keeper could only look upon her. _

_7 A man pushed the Stone away.  
She stumbled over the Stone and fell into the bottomless darkness.  
And the man took the Stone again._

_8 A man was killed by his own brothers in public.  
The greedy brothers picked up the Stone and held it fast.  
The Stone burst into flames and burned the brothers’ hands. _

_9 The brothers were killed by the hand of a slave trader without a name.  
A gate opened and the burning Stone looked into his eyes.  
The slave trader just nodded and stepped through the gate. _

_10 The burning stone appeared before a Vigilant.  
The Vigilant held on to her and felt a fake heartbeat.  
She turned to stone and was thrown into the vastness of the North. _

Eres stiffens. Who was this Vigilant?

_11 A woman went mad with jealousy.  
She swallowed the burning Stone and let her body be consumed by Flames.  
A child followed his mother, but his blood ran colder than hers. _

Her heart thuds loud into her ears. She might not have ever put much stock in prophecies but this—this can’t be coincidental, right? A woman, mad with jealousy, turning to dark magic—Helena’s husband had been unfaithful, and these incidents had only begun to occur after that. And the child, following the mother—that was Julius. It had to be. It fit too well to _not_ be, but—who was Marukh? How long ago had these visions taken place?

But there were two more.

_12 The burning Stone whispered sweetly to a man who does not know his past.  
The man gladly brought the Stone to the temple, but he could not overcome Oblivion.  
The horn rusted and the children of the temple prayed once more. _

…Altano? The horn rusting—was that a reference to Vigilants? The temple could have indicated both the Temple itself, and Stendarr’s Beacon… But then, isn’t she only seeing connections because she wants to? What if it means nothing?

_13 A child of the forest and the burning Stone._   
_This one escaped the Stone twice, but the third time they could not help but to swallow it as they starved._   
_The gate opened, and the gatekeeper drew them inside at last._

Child of the Forest. That was—

Eres hears a distant sob. Then a long, torturous wail. The whispers that had hushed as she read erupt into thunderous panic. It is not the vaguely ordered chaos she had heard before that merely sounded like a disjointed chorus but rather dozens, perhaps hundreds of little hushed voices _screaming_ at her all at once—repeating a phrase over and over and over again that she has already seen once before.

**_“Don’t look at her just run run don’t look RUN—”_ **

The distant wailing turns into a piercing screech. She sees barest glimpse of red at the doorway, the scream turning from a wail to a _howl_ and she snaps her eyes to the floor and _runs_.


	10. Heel

ACT IV   
CHAPTER X   
HEEL

_“Soon, you shall know the cold embrace of death…”_

_Don’t look at her_ , they said. _Just run_ , they said.

Why hadn’t she listened?

Eres has never been a coward. She’s actually been rather the opposite of one, perhaps, plunging into danger headfirst even when it does scare her—her determination, her cause, had always outweighed whatever fear or uncertainty she might have felt. She’s dived into ruins, fighting off legions of the undead without blinking an eye. She’s walked right into a nest of vampires on her own, simply because she _had_ to, no matter how easily she could have lost her life there. She’s willingly given away a piece of her own soul, just to follow Serana into the Soul Cairn. She’d faced the abyssal dragon that was Molag Bal’s summoned form, down in the basement of Stendarr’s Beacon, after watching him eviscerate Altano just moments beforehand.

No one can call Eres a coward. She’s never been one.

She’d even walked right into this mansion by herself, leaving Inigo behind, because there had been a part of her that _knew_ that Molag Bal had another trick up his sleeve, and this was it—Inigo was safer outside, just until she knew what she was walking into, she’d told herself. And she’d _known_. A part of her had known. She hadn’t been afraid, then, not really.

She’d faced Molag Bal _twice_ —thwarted him both times, really. She’d bested him twice before, surely this time, too, she could have managed the same.

But she’d never faced something that Dawnbreaker could not destroy.

How had he done it? How had he made these—these things immune to it? How was it that she could slice and pierce at them and they just—they just never _stopped._ And she could hardly fight them, anyways, not… She couldn’t fight something she can’t look at, that she can’t see without it feeling like her mind is fracturing, folding in on itself, like whatever they are is just too horrible for her mind to wrap around and so it rejects it, thrashing against it, sending such spearing pains into her temple that she’d nearly collapsed, nearly let it catch her—

And then she’d run. Like a coward.

Dawnbreaker can’t kill them.

The words play in her mind in a neverending loop. _Dawnbreaker. **Dawnbreaker** can’t kill them. _If Dawnbreaker couldn’t hurt them, then _nothing_ could—she’s certain of that. She’d have wondered if they were real at all, if there were merely facets of her imagination or more illusions like the spiders that had come pouring out of her clothes, but.

Eres almost laughs. She does, a little bit, a choking sound that turns into a cough. She tastes blood on her lips. She’s fine. She’s _fine_.

Eres leans against the cold wall of the storeroom, Meridia’s blade held tightly between both hands. Above her head, she can hear it pacing back and forth, back and forth—she can hear the little sobs, the pitiful gasping cries. If it were just that, she might have thought it was just a woman, crying somewhere in the distance, grieving over something she’d lost—but that sound is interspersed with that rattling growling sound, with the dark promises uttered in Helena’s gravelly voice.

_“Fool!”_ The voice hisses above her. _“You can’t hide from the dead!”_

Somewhere down the hall, on the first floor, Eres hears a bloodcurdling shriek, the sound of quick-shambling footseps and half-screaming roars of something between grief and righteous fury.

She can’t use Dawnbreaker to track their movement as she had the night before. She can’t—because there’s _two of them_ , each of them stalking the first and second floors, back and forth in an endless cycle, looking for her.

She should consider herself lucky that they can’t seem to search as a human might, opening doors and checking each room. Once she’d lost the first one, she’d near run right into the second as she leaped down the stairs, two at a time. The second one—the one here, on the first floor, is smaller, hunched over, slower than the first one as it walks in shuffling, awkward steps, unlike the first who just seems to _glide_ across the floor when she moves, undeterred by anything Eres tosses into her path.

And so Eres can only run; can only try her best to avoid them if she can.

Doors seem stop them, for a time, if she manages to get behind them without them seeing her. Corners and hard turns, too, when she winds circles in the maze of corridors within the mansion, turning this way and that with little care for where she might end up.

They don’t seem to be able to track her as well as she had feared they might. Now, Eres knows why the being outside Bartholo’s room had never entered. Whatever they were, it seemed they could sense her presence, just as Dawnbreaker could sense theirs, but if she is quiet and meticulous and avoids their sight and hearing, she can manage to escape their direct notice.

Eres could not have even called it a chase, not truly – for Helena, as Bartholo had labeled them both, did not bother with chasing her down long hallways.

No, because chasing was a human thing, a mortal thing, a thing that _people_ did. Certainly, they would follow her for a time—but they were not victim to the same laws of nature she is. Eres had learned the hard way that they could appear wherever they wished to. Including right around corners, following her noise, behind doors and at the bottom of stairwells where they could predict her passage.

Eres has learned to move quietly, with Dawnbreaker held in her hand, wrapped in her cloak so that its light does not draw their gaze. She can’t kill them with it, anyhow, can’t even hurt them—but she can use it to help her sense where they might be, if she only pays attention to how its thrum undulates against her fingers.

But Eres had looked at them. The one thing they’d all warned against—Bartholo, Stendarr’s whispers. _Don’t look at her_ , they’d said.

Bartholo’s notes hadn’t done them justice. He’d tried, certainly, but the man hadn’t been terribly talented at drawing people—or, what might have been people, at one time.

The first, the one that glides and murmurs her promises to bring Eres into the fold of the dead and buried, is that which Bartholo had drawn largest on the paper, in the most detail. From the dark red of her shredded dress, hanging by mere threads in some places, to the red of her skin and the arm charred black and seeming a bit bigger than it should be, to the face that’s not quite a face, covered with red and black and so disfigured that Eres could see only a single eye, near entirely hidden by the folds and blisters of burned skin, the hair that is not quite hair but rather seems almost as shadows that have merely erupted from her skull, like the darkness had festered there and then exploded under pressure only to freeze in place. Eres is not even certain she wants to know what those dark, spike-like growths around her head are—they could be hair, yes. But they could also have been brain matter, blackened and solidified into hard masses of outgrowths on a skull that’s not quite the right shape anymore.

She doesn’t want to think about it. Thinking about it makes her head pound, makes her stomach turn. It’s not even just the disgust of seeing it, but something else, something far worse, something that makes her disgust and recoil manifest physically, somehow, like it’s been translated into injury, into pain and torment, like looking upon that woman serves only to force _her_ to experience the same torture that Helena had endured at her own death, consumed by the flames of a cursed deity.

The second one doesn’t hurt so much to look at, not physically—she doesn’t make the blood in Eres’ vein boil, doesn’t make it feel like flames are licking at her skin, doesn’t make it feel like she could be roasting from the inside out. Instead, looking at her feels like a sword through the chest but not in a tangible, physical way, but instead what feels like the most horrid, heart wrenching grief and anguish she had ever experienced, enough that the pain and shock of it had sent her to her knees, the first time, her breath stuttering in her chest, and it had taken her near crawling, scrambling to her feet, to escape her. It feels like the loss of a family member, the loss of a loved one, only amplified to unreasonable, debilitating levels—could someone _feel_ that much pain, truly, if they lost someone?

Eres had not felt that gutted when her father had died, but she wonders—if Yosef or Johanna, or Serana were to die suddenly, would it feel like that? Like her very soul has been sliced open and exposed and raw and aching, like she can’t _breathe_ for the pain of it?

It is as though the two entities had split to cover, like one entity could not have borne both the physical agony of burning alive and the emotional agony of their loss, and so they had split into separate pieces and now could only wander the halls, near feral in their anguish, in their cursed yearning to inflict that same pain upon someone else—upon _her_. As if by sharing that pain, by thrusting it upon someone that was not themselves, they could free themselves of that burden of existence, if only for a moment.

Eres knows, would have known, really, even without Bartholo’s notes—that they are _both_ Helena, somehow. Two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same soul, split into two terrible, dark specters who could do nothing but haunt and torment the living. Helena, whose soul likely belonged to Molag Bal in the same way that Lamae had, who had no choice but to act out his wishes, trapped in an eternity of torment at his behest.

For a moment, Eres wishes that Dawnbreaker had worked on them—wishes that she could free them, as she had done for Lamae. It would certainly have made the searching easier, made it less terrifying if she could _fight_ them, somehow, or at least injure them. But she could do nothing for them, and perhaps, given the hate and fury she felt roiling from them when she was close—perhaps they would not have accepted that freedom even if they had been offered it. Perhaps they were too consumed by it, too corrupted by Molag Bal to see their existence for what it was.

The shuffling one, the one with the bound arms, that had appeared in front of her as she turned a corner, the other Helena right behind her—she’d nearly run right into it, and she might have, too, had she not looked it in the eyes and collapsed.

She’d scrambled away, then, blessed by the providence that _this_ Helena did not have hands free to grab her with, to hurt her with—at least not physically. She had managed to clamber to her feet and keep running, even as her vision darkened and her hearing muffled, even as it seemed every sense of hers wanted to shut down against her will. Perhaps it would have been a mercy if they had.

Now, Eres is in the courtyard, the dual Helena’s likely searching for her within the mansion halls even still, knee deep in the tepid, algae-lined water of the very pond the butler Summil had died near, in the same courtyard where the Lamthor had been ripped apart by the Bruiant’s hounds – the same hounds whose corpses she had to step over to get here.

She’s not sure who killed them.

Perhaps, barely more than a day ago, Eres might have cared who had killed them. She might have mourned the death of such loyal animals, wondering who could be so cruel as to slaughter them so needlessly.

But, given the story of Lamthor, and the other horrors that yet haunt the halls of the mansion, Eres cannot bring herself to care one whit for hounds who might have ripped _her_ apart, too. Instead, she ignores them, treating them as little more than macabre decoration, and she wades further still into the pond, until the water is near to her waist. The slick slime of algae and grime upon the surface make her cringe as she wades in, and yet she must not tarry—for one of the totems rests just beneath the surface of the water, near hidden under the shadows drawn upon the water by the small walking bridge just above that crossed from one side of the pond to the other.

She’s gotten the hang of things, now—or at least, she _thinks_ she knows how to guess where the next totems might be, based on what she’s seen so far. The totem in Marcus’ own room where he had been haunted by the crawling outside, the one that Bartholo had described in the storeroom where the cook had been, the one in Bhal’s bedroom, and now this—here in the same place where the servant Clifford had suddenly died of a heart condition no one had known he’d had, the same place Lamthor had been ripped apart by the hounds.

The totems, it seemed, could almost always be found in the very same places where people had met their unfortunate ends—or very near to them. Eres can at least attempt to narrow down where the other totems might be, if she can determine the locations of each death. Though she wishes she could say she’d come to the courtyard on purpose, knowing intrinsically where she’d find the next one, the truth was that she’d simply stumbled upon it in her usual methodical method of checking every door—a method which takes considerably longer now that she must slink in the corridors like a common thief—but at least she had found a locked door, found the right key, and it had opened into the courtyard.

Eres had hoped for a breath of fresh air, but even the air of the courtyard was no less dank and foul as that within the mansion. She’d discovered, after nearly tripping over one, that it was the hounds. Killed with throats slit—not killed, rather, but executed. Put down. Likely, she imagined, for killing the butler.

But, then she’d spotted the totem beneath the bridge, and she’d finally seen the pattern. In the worst places, the places where these accidental deaths had happened, she had almost always found a totem nearby. If she can only find out where the rest of the deaths had happened, she could narrow down her search and end this quickly.

She may have to go hunting, hoping to find Bartholo had left notes elsewhere, or some other clues. But first, she must dispel _this_ one. In the water. Under the bridge. While she’s sopping wet and covered in algae. It’s not her favorite experience, so far.

As she approaches it, wading deeper into the pond, Dawnbreaker thrums so violently that it sends ripples cascading through the still, brackish water all around it. When the idol is just beneath her feet, the water near to her chest, Eres lowers the blade into the water and turns Dawnbreaker’s too-bright gem towards the idol, watching as even the murky water of the pond brightens and clears as the light suffuses it, as that holy light engulfs the dark totem beneath.

Eres frowns, squinting down at the totem’s distorted image beneath the water. It doesn’t seem to be reacting—it’s just as dark as it had been before, and she can still feel its dark aura all around her. Why isn’t Dawnbreaker dispelling it? Could it be the water that’s causing its light not to reach it as it should?

Eres adjusts, stepping closer, making a face as her toes sink into the muddy floor of the pond. She thrusts Dawnbreaker’s hilt as close as she dares to that totem, unwilling to touch it directly—she has no idea what effect that might have on her were she to touch it with her bare hands, and she’s not especially keen to find out.

The ground feels like sand beneath her feet, too saturated with water to hold even her modest weight. In just seconds, she has sunk nearly to the ankle, and again she must adjust her footing, stepping out of the small holes in the mud she has made. And yet still, though a full minute has passed, easily, she sees no change in the image of the totem beneath the water, no rusting, no shift in the air around her that might indicate its dispelling.

When she makes to move again, grumbling under her breath, the mud _holds_. Her foot has sunk too deeply, now held fast by the suction of the mud and the water surrounding it, and each time she attempts to pull her leg out, it seems only to sink ever deeper as though she stands in quicksand.

Eres curses, reaching up to grab the bottom of the bridge for leverage, pulling and pulling and _pulling_ and still she cannot get even _one_ of her feet free from the mud beneath her.

Dawnbreaker shrieks in her hold, the whispers, blissfully silent as of late, erupt into clamorous shouts at once and it’s then that she sees it, then that she sees the dark mist seeping out of the idol, sees that mist as it solidifies, curling into little tendrils of rope that burst free from the idol to snatch at her ankles, her calves, her leg and _yanks_ , yanks downward, hauls her and something snaps in her hand—

Water closes over her head, a black mass of writhing rope-like tendrils ever growing in number reaching for her, grasping greedily at her arms and legs as she thrashes, desperate to free herself. One of them closes so tightly around her right hand that her hand spasms, and the weight of Dawnbreaker vanishes from her fingers—along with its light as it, too, sinks beneath the mud, swallowed by whatever _entity_ existed beneath the water, swallowed by whatever entity means to engulf _her_ as well.

A tendril, cold and slimy and _terrible_ , awful darkness, slithers almost gently up from where it had coiled around her torso, caressing the soft skin on her neck almost languidly, lazily, as it wraps around and around in a loose coil, once, twice, three times it coils around her neck before it _shutters_ closed in one space of a breath, and for a moment, just a moment, Eres wonders:

Which would kill her first? The strangulation, or the drowning?

Eres had thought her lungs had ached before, just that morning, the morning after she had spent the night on vigil, the morning after she had somehow forgotten how to breathe in the night, the night that she longed to never repeat—but that ache is nothing compared to the burning pain in her lungs now, the throbbing pain between her temples as her brain starves without oxygen, as the tendril tightens so strongly around her neck that she’s not even sure her blood can reach her, anymore.

There’s an odd sort of calmness to it; drowning. A strange sort of peaceful warmth that fills her in the moments before she thinks she can hold her breath no longer.

For just a moment, just a fraction of time, just a singular, fleeting instant, Eres considers letting go. For just that ghost of a second, she wonders if it would be simpler to just let it happen.

The life of an adventurer such as she is always dangerous, her oxygen-starved mind reasons, very logically, she thinks, for something that is actively dying. She was bound to die sometime, anyways – why couldn’t it be now? Why should she keep fighting against a god, knowing she can never hope to win? Wouldn’t it be so much simpler to just let him win now, instead of continuing to struggle?

Wouldn’t it be so much _easier_ than this?

Darkness. Everything is so dark. Molag Bal, the pond, the shadows, the terrors she’d heard in the night—the very tendrils pulling her under now. Her future. What is she, without Dawnbreaker to guide her? What is she at all, without being the favored pet of the gods to play with to their own amusements? She is nothing and no one.

None will find her here, sunk to the bottom of the Bruiant’s courtyard pond. None might even think to look for her. Inigo would move on, his debts cleared, and Gwyneth would be alright now, probably, and Fellburg is doing just fine without her—it’s more Yosef and Johanna’s estate than her own, these days, only hers in name if not in anything else at all. None of them _really_ need her—so it’s fine. She’s fine.

It’s fine, like this. This can just be—she can stop fighting. Stop struggling. Give in. It’s what Molag Bal wants, surely he’d be satisfied and leave her alone in the afterlife—

_‘My child_ ,’ Eres hears, almost thunderous with resonance against the panicked whispers. _‘Come, now. You have only just begun.’_

Unbidden, Eres’ mind fills with images of Serana, as if forced upon her, as if a reminder thrust upon her from someone that was not herself.

_‘Your fate awaits you.’_

Eres’ eyes snap open—though she can hardly tell, if not for the burning in her eyes, the water as dark as pitch around her. But she feels it, the magic thrumming in her veins, the power, the energy of her mana pouring into her hands. She twists, feeling as though her lungs might spasm if she holds for even another _second_ and she does the one thing she has always been taught _not_ to do.

She pulls her power into her hands, unfiltered, undirected, and lets it _explode._

The power in her roars out of her, and the world goes white.

Eres wakes, gasping, coughing, hacking, rolling onto her side as her lungs try to escape out of her throat. Each breath brings only more wracking coughs, more head-splitting pain, and even her very _hands_ ache, every inch of her body, everything—everything is one large, throbbing ache, and for those few moments before she manages to breathe without coughing—not without a wheeze, mind you—she wonders if she might not have been better off dead.

She climbs to her hands and knees, then, lungs and throat raw, chest feeling like one large bruise, and opens her eyes to the sight of blood—blood on her hands, splattered onto her arms, dripping from—from her. Blood seeps from what feels like a thousand tiny little cuts from the tips of her fingers all the way up to her elbows, shredding through her vambraces in such a way that it looks like she’s been batted around by a rabid sabrecat. The cuts on her hands are superficial, bleeding sluggishly, but the ones on her arms are deeper, wider, menacing gashes that burn in the open air, hissing pains that send fire up her arms and into her spine. Dripping from—from her, somewhere else, right in front of her face.

Eres manages to rock back onto her knees, back aching, hot and strained and so tense it feels as though her spine is made of steel rather than muscle and bone, but she manages it. Manages to bring her hand to her face, manages to follow the taste of blood to her nose.

Blood pours from her, there, and Eres has to press stinging, bleeding fingers to her nose just to check that it’s still there and unbroken.

Her throat aches from the stranglehold of the idol, and then something in her brain clicks.

If only she’d been present enough in her mind to remember that she could have shouted—well. Eres drops her hand back to her side, sitting back tiredly on her heels. It wouldn’t have mattered. You needed _breath_ to Shout, and she’d had none of it. She knew no spells she could have recalled off the top of her head while half-drowned. She’d had no choice.

But she’d certainly paid the price for the destruction she wrought.

When Eres looks at the pond—only half full of the water it had before, and with several feet more of bed than it had prior, extending outward from one end in a mostly straight line, she actually thinks she got off quite lucky. She’d blown herself out of the water, which had been her intention – and somehow managed to avoid blowing _herself_ up in the process.

That was, by all respects, a net positive. Were she in any position to celebrate, she might have even patted herself on the back. Unfiltered, raw magical power was nothing to sneeze at. She could easily have killed herself just as well as the drowning might have.

But at least it would have been quicker.

Near the pond’s edge, almost as if placed there deliberately, Dawnbreaker stands, point in the mud, the gem at its hilt beaming proudly into the dank air. Its surface is as silver-white as it has ever been, entirely unmarred, looking as though it had not touched even an ounce of the mud Eres had seen it sink into with her very own eyes.

Unlike herself. Eres is _covered_ in it. She can already feel it beginning to dry into her clothes, hardening and caking over top of them. Mixing with her own blood to make the mud even darker than it already was. She brushes the worst of it from her clothes, hissing through the pain of cuts brushing against dirt and fabric, and slowly, she stands. Sways. Her vision swims dangerously, the world tilting on an axis one way and then the other and another.

It takes nearly a full minute before the vertigo passes and she’s able to move. Only then does she trudge, sopping wet, muddied, bloodied, and half-drowned, back to Dawnbreaker, back to the pond.

She closes her hand around that holy blade, pulls it free from the ground, and then sneers as she sees it, just there next to the foot of the bridge. The totem.

Limping to it, Eres thrusts Dawnbreaker in its direction. The totem _hisses_ , steaming, and this time, she feels that dark aura recede, fading all around her until it seems like the courtyard itself, the entire area, lightens by several shades. Even the mist that had gathered around the pond seems to burn off at once, and Eres feels the sun at her back, shining down from above.

The idol rusts, then snaps in half.

For good measure—and for her own satisfaction, of course—Eres stomps on it until it breaks into tiny pieces.

And then she sags back to the ground, exhausted, spent, thoroughly and utterly _drained_ in all aspects. The ground beneath her is so saturated with water that she feels it seeping up through her clothing, the disgusting feeling of cold water pressing against her bum through her clothes.

She’s too tired to even be disgusted.

What next?

There were two totems left, by her count, and she’d nearly died to this one. What else could Molag Bal throw at her?

What else could she even _handle_ , at this rate?

And who—or _what_ —had been that voice she heard, above the din of the panicking whispers, above the muffled shrieking of Dawnbreaker, sinking into the muddy floor of the pond?

It hadn’t been Stendarr, that much was obvious. For one, it had been a woman’s voice, and he had certainly never called her ‘ _my child’_. It wasn’t Meridia—Eres could recognize that booming, demanding voice anywhere, and it hadn’t had quite the same regency, the same sort of snobbish expectation that she would listen because she _must_. It hadn’t _felt_ like Meridia in her all-encompassing light, either.

Eres runs through the Princes in her mind, and can’t think of any that might have helped her. She runs through the Divines, next, and very swiftly turns her mind away from _that_ possibility.

_Mara_ , speaking to her? Of all the gods? She must have knocked her head when she’d gone hurtling out of that pond. The Great Mother had better things to do than worry after some stupid elf who’d gotten in over her head with a Daedric Prince.

But.

_But_.

Eres lies back on the wet grass, closing an aching hand around the pendant around her neck. It _is_ a little warm, but it always sits against her skin, close to her heart. It only made sense that it was warm. Why wouldn’t it be?

But. That voice—the warmth in it, the compassion of it, that same godly resonance that Meridia and Stendarr had when they deigned to speak to her. Calling her _child_ —it seemed too obvious to be true.

Which meant it couldn’t be.

Of _course_ it couldn’t be.

Eres huffs out a short laugh. Then another, and another, and suddenly she’s laughing to herself, lying on the ground of the Bruiant courtyard, staring up at the dull grey sky above her and wondering just how she got _here_ , of all places.

She’s gone mad. She’s _raving_ mad, she must be.

She _had_ looked at the Eye of Madness, after all. Balor and his stupid fucking eye and Altano and his stupid plans and making her kill people who never deserved to die—this was her punishment. She’d lost her fucking mind.

_Honestly_. How had she not realized it before now? Is it a thing, then, that crazy people never really _know_ that they’re crazy? Is that what she is now, just stark raving mad, wandering in an old mansion and making up hauntings?

Is any of it even real? The apparitions she’d seen, the _voices_ —the Horn of Stendarr, whispering to her? Dawnbreaker being able to measure a pacing entity, somewhere out there in the corridors in the middle of the night? Waking up feeling like she’s being hunted? The totems, and all the effects they’d had on her?

What if _none_ of it was real?

Just how much of any of this could be real, when she couldn’t be sure her mind was intact?

Every person who had looked at the Eye before her had gone mad. Altano had told her she should consider herself fortunate that it hadn’t had the same effect on her. That she was _lucky_. But maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he’d just outright lied to her. Maybe she’s been mad the whole time, or maybe it had just taken a while to progress to the point where she could understand just how insane all of this sounded.

Her, a mortal, playing games with a Daedric Prince who seemed out to destroy everything she stood for? Not one, not two, but _three_ Divine entities reaching out to her in her time of need?

She wasn’t just mad, she was clearly delusional as to her worth in the world, as well. As if any of them would truly give a damn about her, in reality. She was just a girl. Just—

Just the Dragonborn. The bloody Dragonborn, fated to save the world from the World-Eater.

Or so they said.

Eres sits up, with a considerable amount of pain.

Maybe that’s why, then. If she’s the Dragonborn, and she’s meant to fight Alduin and keep him from destroying the world at large, maybe _that_ was why the Gods gave a damn what happened to her. She’s just a means to an end. They care only because she’s their pawn, a tool to be used in the future. And she can’t _make_ it to that future if she keeps walking into her own funerals.

As if in answer, the pendant warms against her skin. She very nearly rolls her eyes.

Right. She’s got it, then. Can’t die yet – the gods still need you to solve their problems for them. Gods forbid they have to deal with it themselves.

Eres looks across the courtyard, towards the door to the wing of the mansion she’s not yet been—and the wing of the mansion she’s sure will house the last two totems. She doesn’t know what waits for her there. Would it be worse than the two Helenas, perpetually stalking her in the halls of the main wing? Would it be worse than the thing that had paced outside her door the previous night? Could she even survive whatever the next totem threw at her?

Eres looks up toward the sky. The cloud cover makes it look darker than it is, but she can see just the hints of rays of light where the sun shines through. It’s not far past midday. A few hours, maybe, into the afternoon. She still has several hours to search with before it gets dark.

But she’s injured, exhausted, and aching all over. And the courtyard—aside from the near drowning, that was—had been blissfully free of any demons or devils that might have hunted her endlessly within the halls of the mansion itself. The courtyard, shamefully, has no escape that she can see, no way for her to climb over the walls somehow and make it outside—but here, she can rest.

There’s just her, that damnable pond, and the broken totem lying next to the bridge.

And she’s just so _tired_.

If the totems from now are going to be even more dangerous than those she’d faced so far, she needs to be _much_ better than she is right now to have any hope at handling them. And for now, at least, the courtyard seems safe, compared to the rest of the mansion.

Eres decides quickly, looking around to hunt down the pack she’d left near the bank of the pond before she’d waded in. It had been blown near halfway across the courtyard. With a groan, she gets up, and walks to it, and from it she pulls her tent—a bit wet, possibly, but it will do. She sets it up in a corner of the courtyard, pressed against two walls so that there is only one angle of approach, and she spreads out her bedroll on the ground inside it and lays down for what feels like the first time in days.

She’d slept a little the night before, and a little in the carriage, but a few hours time in two days was not nearly enough sleep to get by on.

From her pack, she also pulls out two of her strongest potions, downing one after the other. She’s so tired that even they do not invigorate her, but the flesh of her mangled arm begins to knit together before her very eyes, and the little gashes and nicks on her hands and wrists close, their burning ache fading away. Even her lungs don’t hurt quite as much as they had been, though her chest still aches as badly as though she’d coughed so hard she’d knocked a rib loose.

She presses a hand there, just to be sure, but it’s just the ache from coughing so much. She’s not broken a thing, somehow.

With the healing started, Eres closes her eyes, and goes to sleep in the middle of the day. She keeps a hand closed tightly around Dawnbreaker’s hilt, curling her body around it protectively, just in case.

Eres wakes to the sound of a soft, whining hum that grows to a higher pitched, keening sound. Dawnbreaker resonates with that sound, the hilt vibrating against her fingertips, buzzing as it trembles against the ground below. The sound grows louder as her mind lurches into full wakefulness.

Eres sits up, Dawnbreaker held in her hands, breath shallow and short as her ears strain to listen for whatever must have activated its warning note. Outside her tent, the courtyard is bathed in darkness so complete that she can see only feet in front of her, even with her dark vision being much better than that of a normal human’s.

Eres hears a deep, guttural growl somewhere in the darkness, something animalistic and near feral. As it grows louder, another joins it, and another, and another, and Eres counts four of them, four them of all around her, four of them between her and the door.

Four of them stalking ever closer to where she hides.

_Hounds._


	11. Julius

ACT IV   
CHAPTER XI  
JULIUS

The shout bursts from her lungs with a thunderous clap of sound and energy, and Eres tastes blood on her lips. The hounds, caught in the blast of its force, tumble end over end, yowling and yipping in a mix of both fear and frustration. Eres takes their moment of confusion and bumbling to sprint towards the far door, leaping right over the form of one of them as they spin onto their side and _snap_ with a bite that meets open air. She hears the sound of its teeth clacking together, the growls sounding behind her as the undead hounds right themselves, scrabbling to their feet, claws digging into soft earth—and then she is at the door, thrusting it open, turning to slam it closed—

The door halts mid-motion, punctuated with a high pitched, pained yelp, and Eres curses, reeling back from the maw of the snapping hound who’d just managed to reach the door before she’d closed it, its heavy, box-shaped head trapped between the door and the wall and it’s clawing, claws scratching at the stone flooring and digging into the earth on the other side as it lunges, as it tries desperately to reach her and it’s _strong_ , and the door jerks suddenly beneath her hands as she tries to keep it from squeezing through that opening. A great _thud_ sounds against the door, the wood jerking beneath her hands at the impact, and then another, and then a fourth, each hound throwing itself against it with abandon, with crazed ferocity.

Eres jams her left shoulder against the door, turns Dawnbreaker in her hands so that the guard rests against the lower of her hand instead of against her thumb, and she raises that sword high and thrusts its point into that snarling, foaming, snapping head and hits bone. Again and against she jabs Dawnbreaker’s point toward its face until finally, it sinks home, the blade sinking deep into its jaw so far that her hand nearly goes with it between its maw before she remembers to pull back, just before it snaps closed around the blade and shakes it head, snarling even as it chokes around it and she rips it free, swearing, dark blood splattering on the wall and the floor and the door and finally the hound shudders and rips its head back out—

There’s a sickening, hollow crunching sound, another pained, warbled yelp, and then the door slams closed, jostling against her shoulder. Eres sags against it, dropping to her knees beside it, Dawnbreaker’s blood-blackened blade scraping roughly against the stone beneath her as she goes.

She almost wants to stay there, just for a moment—just a _moment_ to rest, but the hounds keep throwing themselves at the door, scratching wildly at it on the other side, and she doesn’t want to be there if they eventually burst through its panels. She’d rather be as far away as possible.

One warhound, she could take. Maybe two, if she managed to kill the first one before the second reached her. But _four_? Those hounds are much faster than she is, undead or not, and she’s not keen on being ripped apart like Lamthor had been. She’d rather keep her limbs exactly where they are, thanks very much—she rather likes them attached to her body.

Eres forces herself up, rising wearily to her feet, and turns to look down the hall, almost expecting one of the Helena’s to come roaring down it to finish the job the hounds and the last totem had started.

But she does not see the Helenas coming for her. Instead, standing at the end of the hall, she sees a familiar dark figure, draped in shadow.

Julius.

She hadn’t seen him for a while. Eres moves to shoulder her pack, reaching for it—then swears vehemently under her breath. She’d left it in the fucking courtyard. Her back feels light without it, her steps a bit too light-footed without its weight pressing her down, like she’s stepping on clouds rather than solid ground. Her back itself feels exposed—she’s so used to wearing that heavy travelling pack that being without it feels like going without armor. That pack had served as a barrier between her and whatever might have attacked her from behind, in its own way, and now she is without it.

More snarls at the door, more scratches, more barking and vicious howls.

She certainly can’t go back for it now. She’ll have to make do with what she has from here on out.

Which, Eres realizes as she pats herself down, even as she walks towards Julius’ figure just down the corridor—isn’t much. She has a few small vials of potions in the belt around her waist; vials she kept there for quick access in the middle of battle and rarely ever used. In the pouch at her hip, she finds just three more, one of each, significantly darker in color than the others, more concentrated. With the bone-deep weariness inside her, Eres considers taking one of them.

In the end, she reaches for the tiny vials instead, pulling out the cork stoppers from the shatter-proof glass, and allowing herself only half of each.

She feels a bit better, though her mana still feels raw and irritated beneath her skin, like somehow her very magical essence had been rubbed against sandpaper until it bled. She might take weeks to recover her full reserves after what had happened in the courtyard—she’d taken far too much of her power at once, drawing from the very depths of her power that she’d not used in… Actually, she’s not sure she’s ever reached that deeply into her magic, before. The type of magical workings she’d spent much of her time doing did not often draw so deeply from it, and even on the rare occasions that she had to reach a bit deeper than usual, she’d certainly not so much of it at once so explosively, in such a large burst at once.

Perhaps if she’d been more vested in battle magic, it would not have taken so much out of her. As it is, Eres tucks what remains of the small vials back into their places on her belt and makes a note not to use her magic if she can help it. Not even for light. She needs to let it recover naturally, not keep drawing from reserves she’s already near tapped out.

Julius turns down a hall as she approaches him, and she sighs in irritation as she follows dutifully. It would be so much simpler if he’d just _tell_ her where he wanted her to go, but that would have been too normal for the likes of a ghostly entity, she imagines.

Julius stands at the end of a dead-end hall, wall at his back and a single door to his right. Eres frowns at him, but then he points, and the door at his right clicks, and yawns slowly open before her. Julius catches her eye, once, for just an instant, and when she blinks, he is gone.

Eres turns into the room, following his ever-silent direction, and freezes in place.

There is a desk in front of her, facing the wall opposite the door. A painting hangs just above it, an idyllic scene depicting a beautiful meadow beneath a tree whose branches drapes low and wispy over the forms of two figures wrapped in a lover’s embrace upon a blanket beneath it. Or, it would have been idyllic, had it not been for the blood spattered across the canvas, splayed over the desk itself, pooling onto the floor below.

Just in front of that painting, sagged in the chair in front of it, half hanging out of the seat, is a body, its left arm twisted at an unnatural angle like it had been ripped out of place from behind, its owner unsuspecting of the danger.

An arm from which Eres can see the dangling of a blood-stained rosary, the beads scattered across the floor, half coiled around the sleeve of his shirt. The gold trim of the Vigilant’s robe, the dark head of blood-matted hair. Pale skin, tinted blue with death. Dark, unfocused eyes, left open, staring unseeingly just ahead of him, glazed over and bereft of all life. The shredding of the front of his robes, his chest flayed open with it.

The smell is _foul_ , enough that Eres chokes on it, retches, and staggers to brace herself on the wall next to her, near doubled over with the sickness that stench brings in her. She pulls her scarf tight over her mouth and nose, her stomach roiling, and she spends several long moments by the door, breathing as shallowly as she can, waiting for the sickness to pass. Waiting for at least some of that horrid stench to waft out into the hallway where it might not be so overpowering inside the room itself.

It’s not the sight of it, by itself. She’s seen worse, though even she can scarcely believe it. It’s not even the first time she’s seen one of her brethren slaughtered like this—she’d seen plenty of Vigilants brutalized at the hands of that mercenary at Stendarr’s Beacon, and then again at the Temple by Altano’s own hands.

The sight of these things, somehow, gets easier, the more one sees them. It stops being as horrid after a while; starts being almost expected that she’ll see a dead body or two, especially in a place like this. A dead body is a dead body is a dead body. Once you’ve seen a dozen or two, there’s not much about the dead that can surprise you anymore.

The sight of Bartholo, flayed open like someone had carved his chest and then pulled each side of it apart, like they had reached in with clawed hands and just started throwing his bowels around the room, is certainly terrible. It’s certainly high on the list of eviscerated bodies she’s seen. She’s seen worse, but not _much_ worse.

The visual, the sight of such things, gets easier.

The _smell_ , however, never does.

It’s worse still, being that the room had been closed for some time—how long had he been dead? Days? It couldn’t have been much longer than that. His skin, while bluish and pallid, has not yet started to decompose. The mansion’s interior isn’t warm, but if he’d been there much longer than a few days, she’s sure he would have started to rot, regardless. In the absence of visible rotting, and the presence of a torso torn asunder, Eres figures the smell must have come from his injuries. Bartholo’s bowels had been punctured somewhere, she’s certain, or torn open in the attack that had killed him. The smell is always worse when that happens, and this is one of the worst she’s encountered. She’d take a full week in the Ratways before an _hour_ in this room, if she had the choice of it.

Sadly, she does not.

Eres steels herself, taking a breath. She manages not to retch, now, and figures that’s as good as she’s going to get. Her stomach still has that sinking ache in it, like it’s just on the verge of turning against her, and even the meager portions of potions she’d drunk down sit heavy inside her. She swears she can even feel the liquid sloshing around, warring against her body’s desire to purge itself. She ignores that feeling as best she can as she steps forward, slow and careful, to approach his body.

His bowels are still inside him—which surprises her quite a bit, given the mess. She’d almost expected to find his organs all over the floor. Though it was not as she might have expected, his torso has still been torn open by _something_ , as had his neck. To add insult to injury, someone or something had taken his Horn of Stendarr and shoved the pointy end of it into his exposed throat. The horn itself is covered not just in spatters of his blood, but rivulets that had drained downwards from the top, and when she looks inside it, leaning over him to peer down into it, the inside of that horn is still caked with blood, though it no longer overflows.

Whoever had done this—or _what_ ever had done this—had been _enraged_. They’d had to have been furious with Bartholo’s very existence to go this far. Tearing him apart was bad enough, but the horn? That was an added, personal touch, one that reeked of a visceral hatred for Vigilants, or Stendarr himself. Just an extra insult to defile the sacred artifact of a man they had already sentenced to death.

Could one of the Helenas have done it?

Eres discounts the second, shambling one immediately. Without her arms free, Eres can hardly imagine that one being able to do something like this. Added to that, even when she herself had run into that Helena, the pain she had brought to her hadn’t been physical. She’s almost certain the shambling one would have chosen to torture Bartholo psychologically, emotionally, mentally—not like this.

The other Helena, however…

On an afterthought, Eres sweeps her gaze across the room, once, and very quickly moves to close the door behind her. If both Helenas are wandering the entire mansion and not just the East Wing, she’d rather be behind closed doors where they’d be more likely to overpass her if they came looking.

Which, now that she thinks of it, they likely would, after the scene she’d made in the courtyard. Between the blast of her magic explosion and the shout she’d levied at the hounds, she’s certain she would have attracted their attention by now. She should count herself lucky she hasn’t seen them yet—but perhaps Julius’ presence had kept them away. She’s seen the two Helena’s together, but not with Julius. Julius always appeared alone.

Or. A worse thought occurs to her.

Or: It could be a different entity entirely. Something other than the Helenas, or Julius, or even the hounds. There could be others within this wing that she just hasn’t seen yet. Something capable of flaying a man like this, something capable of enough rage and wherewithal to take the time to defile him in this way. Something feral enough to tear a man apart, but with enough intelligence to have taken the extra effort to desecrate Stendarr’s sacred horn. Perhaps the red Helena, the burned one, could have done something like this. But Eres cannot be certain that it would not have been something else, something she has not yet encountered, something far worse than she can imagine.

She doesn’t want to think of it. She forces her thoughts away from that consideration, forces herself to think only of that what _is_ and not the what _if._

Silently, Eres reaches for the horn, and gently pulls it from Bartholo’s neck with a sickening squelch. Blood drips from the end, not yet fully dried, but thick and viscous and almost syrup-like in its consistency. Her nose wrinkles with disgust. Without her pack, Eres has no back up canteen that she can waste her drinking water to clean it, and so instead she finds the bottle of wine knocked to the floor from the desk. She holds the Horn away from her body, pointed end toward the floor, and pours the wine inside of it to flush the last of Bartholo’s blood from its interior.

It seems a silly thing to care about, in the moment, but, something about seeing the Horn in such a manner bothered her. Once she has flushed most of the blood from within it, she tucks the sullied horn next to her own in her belt. She might have tried cleaning it further, but even her clothes are bloodied and muddied and would have done nothing but soil it further. It will have to do for now.

Eres spends the next few minutes clearing Bartholo’s body from its half-splayed position across the chair. She’d meant to lower his dead weight gently to the floor beneath, but he’d been much heavier than she expected. The moment his body clears the chair he’d half sagged upon, she loses her grip, and his body simply thuds down to the ground.

“Sorry,” she mutters. Eres grunts with the effort of dragging him away from the desk to the center of the room. She can’t do much about his injuries, of course, can’t make him look pretty—but she recites the rites of passage over his corpse, all the same, and takes the care to at least shut his unseeing eyes. She doesn’t have the means to cremate him, not now, but she can always send someone back for the body later, if she gets out of here.

No, not _if_.

**_When_**. _When_ she gets out of here, she’ll send someone back to retrieve his body. And she’ll make the arrangements he’d requested in Solitude with the Jarl, if she can. He deserves that much, at least, after the Chorrol Vigilants had left him to die. The bastards. She’ll be having a word with them, too, once she gets out of this godforsaken hellhole. The _audacity_ of leaving a man to die only to request help after. Did they think she’d not find out?

Until then, however, she needs him out of the way. She’s certain there’s another totem in this room. And she needs to see what Bartholo had been working on before he’d died—if, of course, it had managed to escape the bloodshed.

She turns back to the desk, near as wide as she is tall, and finds an assortment of things scattered across its surface, just as she’d found in the last room Bartholo had occupied. More coded notes, more drawings and diagrams, even several books are laid open in front of her, right where Bartholo had been sitting. He had, seemingly, been poring over them when he died.

One of them, the page laid open is near soaked entirely with blood, almost impossible to read. But she recognizes the stanzas, there—it’s the same book she’d found in Julius’ room, she’s sure of it. When she closes it, the title reads as she had expected: _Visions at Malada_. She opens the book again to the bloodied pages, and though much of it is unreadable, she can at least see where ink had bled through in places that Bartholo had written notes in between stanzas. She can’t read them at all, mere blotches of black ink against saturated red.

_Damn it._ Bartholo might have found some connection she had not. And now she’d never know what it was.

Eres turns to the other book, the one left open beside the first. This one she hasn’t read, hasn’t seen before – but in the same way as the first, there are stanzas, written in much the same pattern as the first book, and this one does not have near as much blood saturating its pages.

This one, she can read almost all of it.

_‘Prophet Marukh the Imga saw the following visions at the city of the Dwemer in the North:_

_1 Kyne waits beyond the foaming darkness on the other side._

_2 A brave Vigilant sinks into that swirling darkness.  
In the red stone, a hollow soul sees a familiar face   
He breaks upon the gates, but another will follow   
  
3 A red woman, a corrupted mother, sacrifices her own child   
the curse flows from mother to child, so corrupted is this innocent soul  
The corrupt sinks into the darkness yearning for Kyne’s divine embrace _

_4 The twice burned steps into the darkness  
The red stone invites the sh—which—’_

The rest of the text is unreadable. Eres knows that the second stanza must refer to a male Vigilant, given that it had said _he_ —but was it Altano it referred to, or Bartholo? “Another will follow”? If it referred to Altano, it could be speaking about her, following behind Altano to reach the Beacon after the massacre. Or perhaps it meant Bartholo, and her following him into Bruiant. But _“breaking upon the gates_ ” _—_ was that merely an idiom for death? Or did it have some deeper meaning she couldn’t puzzle out? Why couldn’t this Marukh’s prophecies all be as straightforward and easy to understand as the second one? Near half of the prophecies in the _Visions at Malada_ book had been just as incomprehensible, just as frustratingly vague.

The second stanza, however, Eres is certain is about Helena. Helena, a woman scorned, who had turned to dark magic to exact revenge on her husband, but at the cost of her own child. Eres had thought before that perhaps it was Julius that was the culprit; that had been he who was behind all of incidences in the home. It was Julius, after all, who had been mentioned in both Marcus and Bartholo’s journals. Helena had already been dead.

But it seemed that Julius himself had merely been a victim of Helena’s machinations, and he had fallen to the corruption his mother had invited upon him. Perhaps the apparition she’s seen, directing her to where she needs to go, is the piece of Julius that is still himself, uncorrupted, showing her how she might defeat the evil that has taken hold of the mansion. Showing her how she might defeat his other, darker half. Perhaps it’s a part of him that wants to atone for his actions, in some small part.

Were it not for the things she’s already seen so far, she might have thought that possibility absurd. Now, though, it seems to make the most sense.

Perhaps she’s a romantic, for thinking that a possibility. Perhaps she thinks too much of him, simply because she doesn’t want to believe a child could willingly be as evil as Julius had seemed to be.

And of course, the Molag Bal connection was obvious. _He_ had been the one to corrupt both Helena and Julius. First the mother, and then the child through Helena. Poor Julius had never stood a chance. He’d only been a child. Marcus’ dream about Helena standing beside the ‘man in black armor’, and Julius also—Helena had been closest to Molag Bal in that dream, too. Julius had just been there.

But the third entry, she’s not sure of. How did it all connect? The mention of ‘ _twice-burned’_ reminds her of a similar description she’d seen in the first book, but without being able to read the full text of the second prophecy, she has no idea what it’s all supposed to mean.

Bartholo had written something beneath it that had been washed out with the blood, as well, and so she also could not read whatever he might have found out of it. But, if it was as she suspected and the last prophecy was meant to concern _her_ —what could Bartholo have even known about it? They’d never met. Or perhaps his musings may have named another who fit the role. Eres wants to hope that is the case. The wording of those prophecies, even without their full text, does not sit well with her. She wants to hope that perhaps the text indicates another of Molag Bal’s targets, and not herself.

For, by her estimation, each of Marukh’s visions had come true. He’d had visions about Altano, visions about Bartholo, perhaps, and even visions about a bard—could that also have been the same bard that Facis had mentioned, in relation to Lamae? The man she’d loved who had been corrupted, too? Eres still has next to no information about that bard, but she knows it’s far too convenient to have been coincidental.

She doesn’t want to consider the possibility that Marukh’s other visions might have referred to her. Doesn’t want to imagine what it might mean. She’d _never_ bow to him. Not now, not ever. She’d never allow him to corrupt her. She’d rather die than let that happen.

Eres does not sit at the desk this time. She’s filthy, maybe, but she’s not going to sit in a man’s blood. Instead, she leans over the desk, picking what notes have not been saturated with his blood to see what she might glean from them.

One of them is written in Marcus’ hand, tucked beneath several others.

_‘Bartholo,_

_Please. Please end this. My beloved son Julius is no longer human. He is a Child of Oblivion. It’s all my fault. All I can do now is to take responsibility. I know that I am asking a lot of you. But I can’t do it myself. A father shouldn’t have to kill his own child. Please, help me end this. Help me stop him so that no one else will have to die here. I beg of you, show him Stendarr’s mercy. It is all I can ask of you. Let me know when it is done. I will follow him. I must atone for my sins. I was not there for him when I should have been, but I can be now. I can be for the rest of time. If you would only help me end this. Please, Bartholo. Have mercy on our souls. -Marcus.’_

Eres’ heart sinks. Marcus had realized it, then. He’d realized his son was to blame for everything, and he’d asked Bartholo to end it. Bartholo must not have ever had the chance. And Marcus—those wounds she’d seen hadn’t been self-inflicted. He must have been killed not long after sending the note to Bartholo. He’d clearly meant to take his own life after Julius had been put down.

Julius must have gotten to Marcus first, somehow, but did that mean that he had also been the one responsible for Bartholo’s death?

Eres looks over her shoulder, back at Bartholo’s body resting upon the floor. Could a twelve-year-old child, corrupted or not, have managed to do so much damage? Could he have been strong enough to rip a man’s chest open like that? The thought sickens her, but she must consider it as a possibility.

If it _had_ been Julius, if he had found out what his father had planned for him, then the Horn’s debasement made sense. Julius, realizing that Marcus and Bartholo had schemed against him, might have killed Marcus first—and then come to Bartholo to finish it, knowing that Bartholo planned to kill him and end his little game. Perhaps Julius had stabbed him with the sacred Horn just to drive the point home—Bartholo could not kill him, and neither could any Vigilant.

More notes. She almost reaches to tuck the first into her pack before she remembers that she’s lost it. Instead, she tucks the note from Marcus into a pocket.

_‘Lord Marcus,_

_That wild elf who arrived recently seems to have a negative influence upon your son. Julius has told me of things that man has been teaching him – dark things, horrible things, magic that he has no business knowing of. And today I find Julius in the courtyard with the dogs, muttering something to them like he means to enthrall them in a language I have never heard before. I am sure that Bhal is the one who taught him. There is something wrong with that elf. I strongly advise dismissing him, for the sake of your son. -Lamthor.’_

_‘Clifford,_

_Yesterday the young master threw some sort of black doll into the pond. He has been acting out of late, as you know, since his mother’s death. I don’t like that doll being down there. Something about it is unnatural. I would remove it myself, but my back has been ailing me recently. I ask that you retrieve the doll for me and bring it to my quarters so that I may examine it. I believe that elf may have something to do with this. In return, I will give you a bottle of the finest wine that Lord Marcus gifted me last year, the one you’ve always asked after. Perhaps we can share a few drinks together once this matter is handled? -Lamthor’_

Clifford—that was the one who’d died suddenly in the courtyard, wasn’t it? A supposed ‘heart condition’. What if it hadn’t been a heart condition at all, but merely the totem’s influence which had killed him when he’d tried to remove it? Eres would not be surprised. She’s not certain _she_ could have escaped that totem if she had no magic to speak of.

_‘Heather,_

_Julius was playing on the stairs in the hall today. There may still be some toys lying about. Would you mind double checking to make sure his mess has been attended to during your rounds? I know the west stair is not normally under your purvey, but we have a guest from the capital coming tomorrow and we will need everyone to work hard to make the place as presentable as we can manage. We must not bring shame to Lord Marcus. -Lamthor’_

That was—which one had that been? Heather, the servant. She’d died by a fall, from a broken neck. An accident on those very same stairs, Eres expects.

There is a small torn piece of paper, written in a shaky, unstable hand, spelled horribly:

_‘M’zaq’s nos tels him there is a hiden_ _door behind the back wall of missus room. He bets there is a lot of skooma behind it. If you help me distrakt missus I will give you haf! That is a good ofer! -meet me in gardn at moon crest’_

There is no indication on who may have been the recipient of the note, but Eres does know the name of the sender. That had been the one who’d fallen onto his shears in the garden, right in front of Marcus. Another one, dead, and seemingly not because of any interaction with Julius, but perhaps Helena? Had this skooma-addict of a Khajiit been on to something when he’d mentioned the hidden door in Helena’s room? Eres is certain: _that_ is where she will find the last totem, if he’s right.

_‘Marcus,_

_Perhaps if you thought with your head instead of your tiny cock you could have avoided this. Don’t even try to act like you care. YOU were the one decided to break our vows. You have only yourself to blame. I’m taking MY SON with me. Julius is MINE. I won’t let you have him and infect him with your debauchery. MY Julius will be a good, loving boy, no thanks to YOU. YOU contributed nothing but your seed, and we both know how little you seem to care about where you sow it. I hope that WHORE in Markarth was worth it. Maybe she can give you a son you’ll actually pay attention to! -The ‘Bitch’!’_

_Oof_ , Eres thinks. Helena had definitely been pissed. Definitely fit the bill for the scorned woman. Not that Eres had had much doubt by this point, but it was nice to have the confirmation that her theories had been correct.

But—going by Helena’s scathing note to Marcus, she’d certainly seemed like she loved Julius, at least. She didn’t seem like the kind of woman who would just randomly sacrifice him for her own gain. Had she left, intending only to make a life for herself and her son, and Molag Bal had simply seized the opportunity to corrupt her?

Or, perhaps Helena was just the type of woman who sounded perfectly sane on paper, but not in person. That was always a possibility.

There is one final note on the desk, or rather, it seems to be a single page, torn from a book.

_‘Laza met the White Owl on the green meadow. The Owl stared at Laza’s red and tearful eyes and told him: ‘A shepherd may become a wolf if he lays down his staff. He may roam the Forest and hunt down his Prey. A wolf may even become wind if he abandons his fangs, and there shall be no place out of his reach, and so he may find the people he has lost. But the wind cannot blow straight. With Order, the wind may grow fangs once more, and change back into the wolf he once was’._

_‘Laza met the Grey Owl in the Old Forest. The Owl stared at Laza’s burning eyes and told him: “If you blind your right eye, you will also blind the eyes of the sky. The watchers of the Forest from above will be gone. If you blind your left eye, you will also blind the eyes of the Forest. The watchers of the Forest wandering within it will be gone. If you blind both eyes, none may ever catch you. But you, too, will never catch anyone. Use your nose and ears, avoid the smell of blood, follow the call of the Owl, and you will find your way to Kyne.”’_

_‘Laza met the Black Owl at Kyne’s Spring. The Owl stared at Laza’s bloodied eyesockets and told him thus: “Wash the dagger in the spring from the blood of the maiden of Nede. Lay down your staff and you will grow fangs. The waters of the spring will be tainted, but you will be a wolf. Kyne will be lost, but you will be a step closer to the maiden you have lost.”’_

_‘Take the name of Laza, become an immortal hunter  
Chase the Stone, chase the souls burned by the Stone   
Crush the Stone, bring peace to the captive souls and the Old Forest’_

Eres’s brow wrinkles. What the _fuck_ did any of that mean? And why had Bartholo thought these ramblings were important?

The Stone, she can almost see the connection—the Stone, whatever it is, is mentioned in each of Marukh’s visions, each of the portents that predict the corruption of those who fell to Molag Bal’s manipulations. She’d thought it had been a metaphor, just a poetic way to refer to his corruption, but— _crush_ the stone? Did that mean the Stone was actually a physical object that someone could find and destroy?

Eres has no idea what the first three entries mean, but the last one brings her pause enough. Not just the mention of the Stone itself, but the last line, especially.

_‘Bring peace to the captive souls and the Old Forest’._ She doesn’t have a clue what the _Old Forest_ might be referring to, but, bringing peace to captive souls? That sounded like what she had done for Lamae.

In fact, the adage itself sounded almost _exactly_ like what Lamae had said to _her_ before she’d died. _‘Free them’,_ Lamae had ordered her. _‘Bring his Fortress down around him. The past is not set in stone.’_

His “fortress”? Could she have been referring to this Old Forest, but merely by a different word? What _Fortress_ had she been referring to? And, that last phrase— _the past is not set in stone_ —did she mean what it sounded like, and that past could be _changed_ , somehow, as insane as that sounded, or had it been some kind of coded message, and _Stone_ had been yet another reference to Molag Bal’s corruption? Or, more specifically, the same Stone that could supposedly be crushed, and used to free the souls he had captive?

Eres closes her eyes tight, digging her fingers at either side of the bridge of her nose. All these cryptic messages and vague prophecies and she _knows_ it all connects, somehow, just like Bartholo had seemed to know, but she doesn’t know _how_. What did the prophecies have to do with Laza? Who even _was_ Laza? And had Lamae really been talking about the same thing? Could she have been, even back then? Could she have known what Molag Bal was planning for her?

Is all of this part of Molag Bal’s plan? The prophecies, the notes, the little trail of crumbs Eres had been following—was there any guarantee that it wasn’t just Molag Bal, leading her where he wants her to go?

Of course there isn’t. She has no way to prove that it’s not just him, manipulating her from a distance where she can hardly even tell it’s his doing. He likes to work through proxies, letting his followers do his job for him. His own hands remain clean, while his followers bathe in blood and darkness.

There’s nothing else on the desk that might have told Eres what it all meant. No key for her to use to crack open the mystery of whatever it all meant. There is only a scattering of Bartholo’s coded shorthand, and several drawings of the Helenas. And Julius.

Eres turns away from the desk, and moves to search the rest of the room. There’s an alchemy station, in one corner, and she gladly pilfers several potions she finds there that she assumes Bartholo had left to settle. On the other side of the room, resting very plainly near the head of the bed, out in the open, is the next totem.

Eres approaches it with caution, Dawnbreaker held tight in her right hand. She doesn’t know what she might face with this totem—perhaps whatever was within it is what had killed Bartholo. She holds Dawnbreaker’s gem away from it, for a moment, just long enough to clasp her left hand around her amulet and utter a quick prayer. Let her survive this. That’s all she asks.

Then she turns Dawnbreaker’s radiance upon the totem. Screams of the anguished fill her ears, so loud and so numerous that Eres can’t even tell if they’re coming from the totem, or from the Horn. She sees the dark energy as it seeps from within the totem almost sluggishly, leaking from the pincered head of the idol, and braces herself for whatever might leap out of it.

And nothing happens.

The idol rusts. The bloodcurdling shrieks cut off, muted beneath the light of Meridia’s holy radiance. And, in just a few short seconds, Eres hears the snapping _pop_ of the idol’s face cracking, splintering in half.

It topples over. The air in the room lifts. Breathing feels easier. Even the smell seems decidedly less foul.

And the room is quiet.

The mansion is quiet.

Everything is— _quiet_. Calm. Peaceful, even. It all feels rather anticlimactic.

Eres frowns, but she lowers Dawnbreaker once more. She even crouches to inspect the idol more closely, pulling the dagger from her waist to push the broken pieces around on the ground, half expecting something to jump out from underneath them. Nothing happens. They are as rusted as any other totem Eres has dispelled so far. Empty. Useless. Free of any curse that had been laid upon it.

Eres stands. She walks to the door. Presses her ear against it. She listens, for several long minutes.

Nothing.

No rattling breathing, no shuffling steps, no dark promises from the Helenas. No snapping or barking or yowling from the hounds that could have gotten inside by now and easily tracked her scent to this room. Nothing at all.

Eres opens the door, slowly. Seeing nothing, she opens it wider still, and even steps out into the hall outside. She looks one way, and then the other, and still, she sees nothing at all. She _hears_ nothing at all. Nothing except the sounds _she_ makes, and that of the world outside these walls. She doesn’t even see Julius.

She turns again to face the hall behind her. Looks again. Squints into the shadows near the end of the corridor. Nothing. But she still feels like _something_ should be there, surely?

Just to quell her own paranoia, Eres turns again to the opposite side—

And claps a hand over her mouth, muffling a yelp as she sees Julius, closer than he’s ever been, his eyes dark and fixed upon her. He’s so close she could have reached out and touched him if she wanted to, and she wouldn’t have had to take a single step closer. He’s never appeared so close to her before, and now she can _feel_ him, something _cold_ and dark, something that causes a chill to run down her spine as he stares at her.

She brandishes her blade, pointing the gem in his direction.

He doesn’t react. She steps back when he raises his arm, and he pauses, tilting his head as he looks at her as if he’s confused that she would be so cautious around him, except there’s not a single emotion that shows on his face. After a brief second, he resumes, and he raises his arm to point upward, and he actually _looks_ at the ceiling as he does it, interacting with the environment surrounding him in a way he had never done before.

Then, his index finger still pointed upward, Julius slowly lowers his head to look back down from the ceiling, to lock eyes with her once more.

_“So close_ ,” he says to her.

She freezes.

The apparition of Julius she’d seen till now had never spoken to her. Had hardly even acknowledged her presence, beyond his dead-eyed stare. There had never been any emotion on that Julius’ face. Never any manner of speech or direct communication.

But _this_ Julius.

This Julius looks at her, and the dead-eyed look begins to slacken, as though he’d merely painted that expression on and now allowed it to slide off him. His eyes turn from detached and unseeing, to focused and _sharp_ , and those dark eyes dance with what almost looks like dark amusement.

A corner of his lips quirks upward.

“So _close_ ,” he coos at her. “Don’t you want to leave?” he asks her, tilting his head in that very innocent, puppy-like fashion, without an ounce of innocence about him. “Don’t you get it yet?”

Eres swallows. She steels herself, pushes her unease deep down within her. It’s just Julius. He’s just a kid.

“Get what?” She asks him.

“You’ve been doing well,” he says instead. “My master is impressed with you.” He looks a little annoyed, then. A little put out. Maybe a little jealous. “You keep ruining my fun.” He looks at her again, accusingly now. “I’m not going to play with you if you just keep breaking all the rules.”

“…Rules?”

“Go on, then.” He orders her, and points again toward the ceiling. “The last one is in Mother’s room. But you guessed that already, didn’t you? Because you’re smart. Master said you would be.” And he sounds just so _irritated_ about that. His stare hardens into a glare. “I’m _letting_ you go,” he says.

“ _Letting_ me go?” She asks.

“ _Yes_ ,” he huffs. “That one was easy, right?” He gestures vaguely in the direction of Bartholo’s room, smiles. Then that smile widens as it turns into a face-splitting grin, eyes flashing with glee. “I’m saving the _best_ for last.” He looks at her then, smug. All too confident.

“You’ve been cheating,” he tsks at her, tutting like an adult scolding a young child. “But Master won’t let you cheat next time. Let’s have a _real_ game. If you win, I’ll let you leave.”

“I thought you were letting me go already,” Eres counters.

Julius rolls his eyes. “Not from _me_ ,” he says, as if to say, _obviously_. “From him,” he says, casually, and points.

It’s at that same moment that Eres sees a shadow in the corner of her eye. She turns, half expecting to see a raised Bartholo staring down at her, but what she sees is far, far worse.

There is a hulking shadow of a _thing_ in Bartholo’s room, its body and limbs comprised of something black and viscous, something that roils and undulates on the surface like the inside of it _boils_ , and its hunched over, vaguely man-shaped only in that it seems to have two legs and two arms, but sprouting from its back are several spines of more of that viscous, black roiling fluid-like substance, and it doesn’t have a face, not really, but Eres can feel that it _stares_ at her.

Something in its abyss of a face hinges open, and the voice that pours from it is something like metal scraping against metal a thousand times over, a raw screeching that makes the hair on her body leap to attention, that sends a shiver arching down her spine just at the sound of it.

It leers at her when its mouth closes, and in its black void of a face, two little red orbs appear, glowing brightly against the black. They look almost like stones, sitting there, emblazoned onto its head.

It looks far too big for the room its found itself in, hunched over on spindly little legs until its entire form seems to be bent in half just to stare menacingly at her from the doorway. She can’t even see _past_ the thing into that room, it’s so big. She’s not entirely certain it doesn’t just fill the entire room.

But then it _shifts_ , and that blackness _roils_ and rumbles and then it’s _seeping_ out of the doorway, tumbling out of it like slime as it pushes itself through an opening far too small for its gargantuan body. Eres leaps back, away from it, Dawnbreaker in front of her, and the thing _arcs_ around it, somehow warping around Dawnbreaker’s radiance in the almost-perimeter of a wide sphere, like Dawnbreaker itself has surrounded her in an impenetrable, invisible barrier, and now that _thing_ merely moves around it, engulfing it, large enough to swallow her _whole_ if it tried—

Julius laughs.

The thing—the great and terrible Shadowbeing that it is, shifts its essence until it pours down the hallway behind Eres, around Dawnbreaker’s sphere of radiant light, and then it begins to reform just there on the edge of that barrier, first the spindly legs, then the hulking, hunching body, then the spines that erupt from its back like the legs of an enormous spider, turned on its back.

At its full size, out here in the halls, standing mere feet away from her, it nearly reaches even the vaulted ceilings of the corridors well over ten feet above her head, even hunched over as it is, bent nearly in half, the spines on its back scraping harshly against the ceiling as it shifts.

Its body roils ever still, bubbling and boiling and it is a shadow in ever constant motion, in ever shifting form.

Eres looks at this thing, and she feels sick.

She knows it is the thing that had killed Bartholo.

The hulking Shadowthing opens its abyssal maw once more, the shrieking sound of metal grating against metal filling her ears yet again. Julius hums when it quiets, almost thoughtfully.

“You’re right,” he says to it, suddenly. “It’s not fair.” He turns his dark eyes back to her, his smile fading. His eyes harden. “He says it’s not fair he didn’t get to play with you this time. He thinks he can win, now.” The boy smiles, coldly. “You don’t have your magic, now.”

This. _This_ was the thing that had pulled her under?

She looks at it with a dawning, growing dread. She’d _dispelled_ that totem, and it was _still_ here. How _powerful_ was this thing?

“Tell you what.” Julius’ voice sounds close to her ear, and she flinches, away from him, nearly bumbling back towards the Shadowthing before she remembers, and instead she presses herself against the wall, trapped between the two of them, holding Dawnbreaker in front of her like a shield.

Julius smiles. “I’ll let you get a headstart.” He promises, and waves his hand in a dismissal.

There’s an almost sad, warbling sound, and Eres watches, dumbfounded, as the Shadowthing _melts_ into the floor and vanishes from sight. She can’t even sense it anymore. It’s _gone_.

She looks at Julius.

He looks back at her, clasping his hands mildly behind his back. After a moment, he raises his brows at her.

Then, helpfully, he says:

“This is the part where you run.”

__  
  



	12. Give Me Liberty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: There is a reference/implication of a threat of sexual violence near the end of this chapter. It is NOT graphic in any way, but if this is triggering for you, please take care when reading.

ACT IV  
CHAPTER XII  
GIVE ME LIBERTY

Eres runs.

Eres had thought that she would have no energy left in her body to run. After the sleepless nights, after the near drowning, after the expulsion of her magic, after the discovery of Bartholo’s mangled corpse—she had thought her reserves near completely depleted. She had thought there could be no way she might outrun Julius’ dark creation.

And perhaps still, there isn’t.

But it turns out that the threat of death at the hands of a gargantuan shadow-beast who had already ripped apart her brethren was a pretty good motivator.

Eres finds energy she didn’t know she has, goes tearing down one hall and the next, unsure of where even she might go that she could escape it, that it wouldn’t be able to find her. She doesn’t even know for sure that it chases her – she’d seen it melt into the floor, and Julius of course had not told her exactly how far of a headstart he planned to give her.

Of course it would be as she thinks this that she hears its metal screeching voice behind her, roiling down the hall as its chase begins.

Eres crashes through the next door, hardly even taking the time to open it, and even as she barrels down the long hall she recognizes where she is with sudden clarity.

The East Wing.

The Helenas.

An idea begins to form in her mind. It is an absurd one, a ridiculous one, an idea so mindbogglingly insane that she’s not certain it would even work, not certain even what brings the idea to fore in her mind. She pants, chest heavy and burning with her exhaustion, mind reeling—she can think of nothing else. What else could stop a beast like that? Certainly not Dawnbreaker, though its light did seem to have _some_ effect on it, it’s large enough that he could just engulf her entirely, Dawnbreaker and all.

But Helena. Helena might be able to thwart him, or at least slow him long enough that she can get to that last totem upstairs in the north wing that Julius had pointed out. Once that totem was dispelled, she would be free of this place forever. She just had to _get_ there first.

And Helena might be just what she needs to accomplish it.

Railing against the very strategy she had used to escape them, Eres sprints down the hall making as much noise as she can, holding out the sheath of Dawnbreaker to knock vases and urns and plates off of tables, paintings off of walls, pushing over furniture as she reaches it without stopping if they’re light enough for her to knock over with a shove, anything to make the noise she knows will draw the Helenas to her.

If she can just turn them against each other somehow, she just might make it out.

She hears a bloodcurdling shriek, just as she sees a flash of red at the other end of the hall. She snaps her gaze away from that end, focusing only on the floor ahead of her, and skids to a stop, pivoting on one leg so hard that her ankle twinges as she turns, and then she is sprinting, back in the other direction, back towards the shadowbeast that had been just meters behind her.

She sees it there, roiling in the middle of the hall, sees it as it rears up in front of her, reeling back from her as if to show its surprise and confusion as she runs right for it. The thing recovers too quickly, red-stone like eyes gleaming at her in all its darkness and then it is screeching at her, its metallic grate joining the shrill scream of Helena behind her in a cacophonous symphony of horrific proportion.

She feels Helena licking at her heels, feels the heat of that anger just behind her, feels the cold _wrongness_ of the shadow-thing just in front of her as it pours down the hall toward her and she grabs the Horn of Stendarr from her belt, thrusting Dawnbreaker in front of her, and the thing _warps_ around its light, and Eres ducks, dropping to the ground and _sliding_ beneath the opening Dawnbreaker had created, ignoring the violent _slosh_ as the wet, liquid-like shadow closes behind her even as she scrambles back to her feet.

She looks over her shoulder, then, and had she not been on the verge of death she might have laughed at the way its head peered at her, upside down, through its own legs. Then it twists, shifting, warping in place as its body rotates and whirls to face her, as it moves to chase her—

And then Eres hears a deafening screech unlike any other she’s heard, the same sound of metal against metal but _agonized_ , fearful, _terrified_ even, and that roiling shape _shudders_ and trembles and then spins yet again to face the opposite direction and Eres sees her, Helena, near half-buried in that blackness, shrieking and screaming all of her rage and torment into its very being and the thing is howling out its pain, howling out with the influence of Helena’s touch upon it.

Eres nearly does laugh, then, out of sheer incredulity. She can’t believe it _worked_.

But she has no time to celebrate, no time to cheer her own ingenuity. Eres turns, sprinting back down the same hall from which she came, keeping her eyes averted as skirts past the tangled forms of the shadow-shape and Helena as they war against each other’s natures, and she’s sprinting back into the North Wing, back towards where she had found Bartholo, back towards the stairs that would lead her upward.

She takes the stairs two at a time, might have done more if she’d been tall enough, if her legs were long enough, but she reaches the landing in record time and she’s running all over again, her breath coming in sharp, whistling wheezes, her head light and airy and dizzy but she sees it, the open door of Helena’s room, and she’s _going to make it._

Eres crashes into the room, near spilling end over end as she runs into a wayward chair, but she rights herself, careening towards the far wall, towards where she’s _certain_ that last totem rests. There is nothing against that back wall but a singular wardrobe, conspicuously placed, and so she flings it open, and kicks out the back panel, and sure enough there is a stairwell just behind it and a stained glass door at the very bottom of that stair.

Eres huffs down those stairs, down through the stained glass door, into the darkened room beyond, and with Dawnbreaker’s light blazing in her hands, she sees it.

The last totem.

It rests almost venerated upon a small, handmade altar. The blood dripping from its face is still fresh, still bright red, and the energy that reaches toward her from it is _vile_ , the most vile she’s felt since stepping into this godsforsaken place. She thrusts Dawnbreaker toward it as she stomps closer to it, watching with grim satisfaction as its surface begins to rust and burn beneath its light, as the screams of the anguished and tormented souls wrack her ears, as the putrid smell of its evil essence fills the small, hidden room.

And then it cracks. The idol rusts. The screams, unlike with every other idol, continue just a _moment_ longer afterwards, as if on some kind of delay, and then it fades entirely. Only to be answered by louder, shriller shrieks somewhere from deep within the mansion. Helena and the shadow-thing, she expects—would they be freed from the curse of the totems, or was it only that they had felt their link to Molag Bal’s power severed?

Eres turns to go back up the stairs, to make her way back to the front entrance of the lobby and finally, _finally_ leave this place—

And then there is Julius in front of her, his face contorted in rage, eyes near black in his fury.

“You _ruined it!”_ He screams at her, his eyes darkening further, eyes darkening until even the sclera is as pitch, his eyes just two black abysses seething back at her. “ _You ruined EVERYTHING! This was my game and you RUINED it!”_

Eres opens her mouth, near to saying he’d said he would let her go if she won, but then she sees him stalking toward her, stomping, black seeping from his feet as he moves and that black hisses as it touches the floor, hisses and _boils_ and erupts into flames that spark and jump and _leap_ from his feet to the rugs, to the walls, to the ceilings, starved in their intensity as they come racing toward her in leaps and bounds, in such a way that Eres knows they can’t be normal flames.

No, these are the flames of Julius’ rage, fed by his fury, a physical manifestation of his hatred and anger that lick hungrily at the air and the walls and the ceiling and want nothing more than to consume _her_ , specifically—because she’d ruined it.

She’d ruined his little game.

“I won’t let you leave!” he promises her, when she sprints past him into the hall, down the way she’d come. She hears him behind her, moving far too fast for a boy of just twelve, flames erupting from his very being, flames that move even faster than he does, desperate to reach at her, desperate to burn her until there is nothing left of her.

Eres runs, and runs, and runs, and she runs even when her lungs begin to ache from the smoke and she runs even when her legs feel like they might fall off and she runs until she goes careening through a doorway and nearly topples over the body of Marcus, still prone on the floor of the entrance hall. She runs, she sees the door, she can reach it she knows she can reach it she’s right _there_ —

Heat and fire and hell _bursts_ from the ground in front of her, sending her reeling, tumbling back, just barely managing to catch herself with her hands. The fires of Julius’ fury explode upwards from the ground itself, somehow burning even against the marble floors as they engulf the door, the very door she needed to get out. Those flames fan outward, hissing and popping and roaring around her as they spread, covering windows and walls and everything in her immediate surrounding until there is just her, just Marcus, just the fountain—and the flames, all around her.

And Julius, in the center now, barreling toward her with such hatred disfiguring his expression that he barely even looks human, anymore.

“You ruined _EVERYTHING!”_ he screams, and Eres _chokes_ as the boy throws himself right into her, catching her by surprise—she’d expected one of his shadows, one of his creations, one of the Helenas, not _him_ coming for her himself—and his little child-hands close into claws around her throat, even his _hands_ feeling like fire against her skin, burning so hotly that she might have screamed if his hands weren’t wrapped so tightly around her throat that she can’t _breathe_ for the strength of that grip.

 _“Why couldn’t you just PLAY,”_ Julius snarls, shaking her, lifting her up and slamming the back of her head into the marble floor with the shout, _“by the RULES?”_ he slams her head into the floor again and she can’t help it, she can’t save him, she can’t do anything to help him she has to please believe that she _has_ to she has no choice he’s given her no _choice_ she never wanted to—

Dawnbreaker slides home between his ribs.

Julius’ grip on her neck slackens as she watches the shock and pain take over his face, his eyes fading ever so slightly from that roiling black as he stumbles to his feet, lurching back off of her. She gasps, sucking in air tinged with smoke that only leaves her coughing even more, and his little child hands press to the wound on his stomach, his little brow wrinkling with confusion.

When he looks at her, for just a moment—just a fleeting, breath of a moment, he looks like a child again. Lost. Confused. In pain. And so, so young. Innocent.

She feels sick.

Another child.

 _Another_ child she’s killed. How much blood will stain her hands before Molag Bal is done with her? How much more death will she wrought upon the world, thanks to him?

But then Julius’ face morphs, contorting into that same mask of unfathomable fury and hatred and he screams, bellowing out his fury, blackness seeping from every pore of his body and spreading onto the ground, bursting into flames whenever it makes contact.

“ _IF I DIE SO DO YOU!”_

Julius _bursts_ into that blackness, his body disintegrating into that black acid, splattering all over the room, feeding the ever-growing flames that threaten to swallow her whole.

Eres can think of nothing else. 

She clambers, half crawling, to the same fountain she’d found Marcus in. She throws herself into it, soaking herself in a mix of his blood and the stale, tepid water his body had sat in, and she presses herself against the short wall of that fountain and she stares up at the flames that surrounds her and wonders—

Which would be worse?

Was it worse, for her to burn alive? Or would _boiling_ alive be more painful? How long would these flames last? Could she manage to throw herself under the water long enough that they would burn out around her, and she could escape? Could she even count that the water would manage to keep her safe at all? She’d seen how those flames had grown, how quickly they had engulfed everything around them—they weren’t natural flames.

These flames were as cursed as the boy they had come from, and they wanted _her_ dead.

“Now look what you’ve done.”

Eres’ blood runs cold.

She knows that voice. She knows that voice all too well. She had been waiting to hear that voice since she’d come here, she’d known he would be here, known he had been behind it, and she knew he would show himself eventually but she’d been so caught up in Julius and the shadow-thing and trying not to _die_ that she’d almost forgotten him, almost managed to believe that he wouldn’t come for her, that she’d escaped his notice this one, single time.

But no.

There he is. Leaning casually against the railing of the stairway next to the fountain, arms crossed over his chest, black armor glinting with the orange and red and white of the rising flames all around him. He doesn’t look at her, but out at the mansion itself, at the entrance hall, at the place where Julius had _erupted_ into the very flames that had surrounded them.

“In the end, his hatred consumed everything within this mansion. His mother. His father. All of those servants. Even himself.” Molag Bal’s pincered head turns toward her, the blacked out hollows of his eyes fixing upon her, sitting haphazard, stupidly in the fountain like it might just save her from this. “And now it will consume you.”

“The _depth_ of his hatred,” Molag Bal continues, half-whispering with his intensity, “so much _hate_ in such a small body. Even _I_ could scarcely believe how much hatred he could hold within him. He was even more hateful than Lamae was.” He turns his head toward the ceiling, as if lamenting. “Ah, Lamae,” he says, tone turning almost cloying.

“Are you just here to gloat?” Eres bites out, choking back the urge to let her despair swallow her whole. She’s going to die here. She already knows it. She’d finally gone and found herself the one adventure she wouldn’t come back from. Why the fuck hadn’t she quit the Vigilants when she’d had the chance? “To watch me die? Is that what you want?”

“Want?” Molag Bal lets out a short chuckle. “My dear,” he purrs, “you _know_ what I want. Time and time again I have offered it to you. Time and time again you have refused me.”

He tsks, shaking his head. “Fragile,” he mutters. “How very, very fragile you mortals are…”

“Why—”

He tuts at her. “You blame me—I know this. But don’t you see?” He asks her, turning to face her. He acts as though the world is not burning around him. She supposes it is normal, for him. “ _I_ have only brought alms to the starving.” He spreads his arms wide, as if to indicate his great generosity. “Why blame me when you should be _thanking_ me? I am a miracle as well as the emperor. I am the bread—the bread for the starving of this world. They hunger, and I feed. I provide them only with what they need, you see. What they desire. What they do with it—that is up to them.”

Her lip curls. “If you’re so far removed from all of this then why bother? Why not just leave us all alone?”

“Why?” Molag Bal tilts his head. For a second, he looks almost like Julius. Eres wonders how much of Julius had merely been Molag Bal, acting through him. “Because you disgust me. It _infuriates_ me when I see the Aetherius inside you,” his voice lowers into a dangerous growl. She can feel his hate for her, burning next to Julius’ own.

“I despise all of creation. All of Mundus. You insignificant mortals, so _brilliant_ in your goodness, in your innocence. So _righteous_ in your refusal of me.” She raises her chin, defiantly, knowing he means _her_. She can almost feel his glare intensifying. “I will not stop,” he tells her. “Not until everything is mine. Not until _all_ of you have bowed to me. This world, and everything in it, will be _mine_. I will make it so. Even _you_ , Child of Stendarr.”

He smiles, then, suddenly. She can feel his amusement, his satisfaction.

“I do _so_ love Stendarr’s children,” he muses. “They are always the most fun to break. The most stringent. The most resolute. The most… _delicious_.” He crouches in front of her, even as he waves a hand behind him.

There is a great _snap_ , and the air rips open with a thunderous clap. Behind him, now, blazing with inner light, Eres sees it:

A portal. A dimensional rift.

A way out.

“You struggle, and you struggle,” Molag Bal murmurs, voice deceptively soft. His hand reaches for her cheek, and she rips herself away, but he snatches at her, grabs her head in his hand, digs the points of his talons into the back of her head until she has no choice to stare at him, until she has no choice to let him hold her face like he _knows_ her, like he deserves to know her.

“And for what?” He asks. “How much torment are you willing to endure for your precious _morals_?” He spits out the word like a curse. “Haven’t you done enough?” He regards her for a moment, silent when she doesn’t answer him.

“Has Stendarr ever repaid you for your loyalty?” He asks, then. “Has he ever done _anything_ for you? You know that I reward my followers well,” he says, and she feels him smile. “Most of them, anyways. The ones that interest me. The ones that make me _fight_ for them—the ones like you. You,” she shudders, face contorting with disgust, as his thumb brushes against her cheek. “You are _fascinating_.”

“Fuck off.”

Molag Bal seems amused by that, for some reason. “I can get you out, you know,” he tells her. “You don’t have to die here, bested by a _child_. You don’t _have_ to burn alive. I am, after all, a generous man.”

 _You’re not a man,_ she thinks, and she swears she can sense him roll his eyes at her.

“Fine,” he amends, “a generous _monster—_ if you must. I am generous all the same. I’ve not come to gloat—far from it, in fact. Instead, I offer you my aid. Accept my help, and I will get you out of here. I will free you from this place. If not…”

“No,” she spits at him. “I’d rather burn. You’ll never have me.”

Never.

She’d never let him take her. She’d vowed that ages ago. No matter what he said to her, no matter what he did, she would never bow to him. She’d die first before she let that happen.

“Really.” Molag Bal releases her, stands. He looks down at her for a moment, then makes a show of pressing a finger to his chin in thought. “Well,” he considers aloud, almost flippantly, “I suppose if you _are_ that suicidal, I will just have to take someone else in your place.”

Eres’ breath shutters in her chest. Her heart stops. Her stomach sinks.

No. _No._

“Now, whoever could I choose…” Molag Bal taps his talon-ed finger against his armored chin, tutting softly. “What was her name again? It’s _just_ on the tip of my tongue. Help me out here.”

Her mouth goes dry.

 _No_. _By all the Gods, **no**_. Not her. Not her. Not her, _please_ —

“Ah. _Serana_. That was her name. Such a _beauty_ , if I recall correctly. It has been some time, of course, since last we met—I don’t normally go back for seconds, you know, but, perhaps I will make an exception just this once.”

He turns his dark, hollowed eyes upon her, and she can feel his cruel grin as he looks down at her.

“The thought of bringing her your head, having her once more—” he hisses, sucking in a breath, and Eres feels _sick_. “It fills me with—”

“ _Don’t_.”

“Don’t?” Molag Bal repeats, raising his brows at her. “Don’t _what_? Enjoy her? I assure you, I will—”

“ _Don’t_ touch her, I—” Eres can hardly breathe, can hardly think for the words that come tumbling out of her before she can stop them. “I’ll—I’ll let you help me. I’ll take it—I’ll take your help just don’t-don’t _touch her_. Don’t _ever_ —”

She chokes on the words, unable to bring herself to say them aloud. The thought of it alone, the promise of it, the very _concept_ of him making good on that threat makes her stomach roll violently, makes her entire soul _ache_. The pain she feels, the anguish that feels like it might tear her apart from the inside out, is far worse even than what Helena had done to her.

Even a demon whose domain had been such torment could not have matched what she feels now, confronted with the threat of him returning to her, with the threat of him going after Serana just to get even with _her_. Because of _her_.

It would be her fault.

Molag Bal would never have cared about Serana, probably never even remembered him, if Eres had not caught his attention.

Now she’s back within his sights again, all because Eres had been dumb enough to piss off a god. She’d been so fucking _stupid_. She’d been. So. Goddamned. _Stupid._ And now Serana might—might…

“Leave her alone.” Eres manages. She bites at her tongue, tasting blood, feeling clarity—she remembers Lamae, and the prophecies, and all that she had seen. She remembers the _twice burned_ who fell the third time, who swallowed the stone. She remembers Lamae, urging her to bring down his fortress, to free the souls he’d had captive.

Molag Bal laughs at her. “Is that all it took?” He wonders aloud. “So much—so much you’ve suffered, when all you had to do was say yes. All this time. All these near-deaths you’ve had—all this _torture_. All you had to do was say yes. But no—you’re even willing to _die_ to refuse me. You and your self-righteous _god_ ,” he spits. “So up on your noble airs. So willing to martyr yourself for a _cause_. And all this time,” his amusement returns, “all I had to do was mention one of my daughters? Was it always so simple with you?”

The hate she feels for him is so thick she nearly chokes on it. She doesn’t care what he does to her. She doesn’t care, she doesn’t care, she doesn’t _care_ —not about _her_ , not about herself, she’s nothing, she’s no one, but Serana—she’d kill him.

She’d _kill him_.

Somehow, some way—she’d make him pay. If he so much as _glanced_ in Serana’s direction she would tear him apart. She doesn’t care how long it would take, how many times she might have to die to do it, how much torture she would have to endure—she’d fucking _destroy_ him.

“I don’t know what you see in her, Vigilant,” Molag Bal continues. “She is _just_ as monstrous as I am. You know that, don’t you?” He scoffs, then laughs. “She was born of _my_ blood. It was _I_ who brought her into this world. _I_ created her. Remember that,” he tells her, “next time you think of your love for her.”

He leans down, hauls her up bodily out of the water, holds her by her collar and leans close to breathe the next words into her face.

“When you love _her_ , you are loving a piece of _me_.”

“She’s _nothing_ like you,” she hisses right back at him, her hand clenched around the dagger at her waist, Dawnbreaker shrieking somewhere in the distance, clattered on the floor from where she’d scrambled away from Julius to escape his flames. “You’re not even a _fraction_ of what she is.”

Molag Bal pulls back, regards her coolly. He hums low in his throat. “You might just be my favorite Vigilant yet,” he purrs to her. “I will make you a deal, Child of Stendarr.”

He steps back from her, releasing her, and goes to stand beside the whirling portal just feet away from where she stands. It is there that he turns to her, and raises one of his hands, palm turned upward.

“Accept my generous offer,” he tells her then, “and I will erase your Serana from my memory entirely. A life for a life, if you will,” he offers her, very reasonably. “Your life for hers, Vigilant.” He raises his hand, beckoning with his fingers. “You won’t get a better deal than that.”

All at once, the roaring of the flames surrounding her surges back into existence with such a thunderous din that she realizes, with some shock, that she had not heard it until now. Did Molag Bal somehow stall the approach of the flames? Did he have power over time itself, and he had frozen a moment within it to offer her this deal before the flames consumed her, or was it only that he had held the flames at bay, sown by his own follower, and only now did he release them to do as they wished?

“Time is running out,” Molag Bal says, voice a low growl over loose gravel. “Your decision, Vigilant. If you die here, she will be mine. Forever. And I will remind her every. Day. Just who she has to thank.”

Eres feels like her stomach has dropped through her feet.

“So which will it be?” Molag Bal asks. “Your life? Or her eternity?”

He could not have given her an easier decision to make.

It wasn’t even really a choice, was it?

She couldn’t. She _can’t._ She _can’t…_

* * *

Inigo throws himself into the door. He has thrown himself into the door so many times he thinks he might become one with it, if he does so one more time. But the door does not budge, as it had not budged any other time he had tried, and the flames continue to grow high over his head and they leap and lunge for his fur.

Inigo swears under his breath, throwing his pack to the ground, and from it he procures his bedroll and he unravels it and holds it in front of him like a barrier as he presses back against the front door, peering into the small window—he _knows_ he had seen her in there, he is _sure_ of it.

“ _Eres_!” He shouts, at the top of his lungs. She does not turn. He sees her, her silhouette in the flames, and beside her there is a man, a man in dark armor, and Eres will not answer him, will not even turn in his direction.

Inigo slams his fist upon the door, pounding against it. He knows what that portal is, Inigo is not stupid. He has seen rifts before. He has seen daedra being summoned. He knows that rift must lead to Oblivion, and he also knows that Eres had feared Molag Bal, and he _also_ knows that Molag Bal has a pincered helmet and _this_ man in the black _also_ has a pincered helmet and therefore the man in black must also be Molag Bal and the portal must be his and Eres is in a burning mansion with _Molag Bal_ and she is _alone_ and he cannot help her! He is supposed to help her! He had tried so hard to help her but nothing had worked and so he had waited and now he is here, watching her as the mansion burns around her and Molag Bal stands there with his stupid portal and Eres is going to _die_ and it’s all his _fault_.

If only he had been faster. If Inigo had been faster, if he had not been so tired, he would have been in the mansion _with_ Eres, and he could have helped her. He could have helped her fight the flames and the demons inside the mansion and maybe Molag Bal would not have come to her if she was not alone so really it is Inigo’s fault that Molag Bal has come to her again and it is Inigo’s fault that Eres might burn alive and how will he tell her friends that she has died because Inigo was too sleepy to get out of the cart faster?

Inigo is the _worst_ friend.

“ _ERES!”_ He pounds on the door again.

The man in black armor’s head turns, ever so slightly. Eres’ does not. The man in black holds his hand out to Eres, and Eres stands there for a long time, and Inigo wants to scream at her, wants to yell at her and tell her that he will find a way inside and he will find a way to save her and she does not have to do this, she _doesn’t_ Inigo will help he will find a way to help her—

But Eres does not take his hand.

Eres does not take Molag Bal’s hand, but Inigo watches in horror as she walks past him, as she steps into the portal, as she disappears right before his very eyes and she is _gone_ and there is only the man in black armor, looking after her, and then the man in black armor is looking at _him_ , through the flames and through the window and Inigo _knows_ that he sees him but Molag Bal does nothing, he only smirks.

Or Inigo thinks he smirks, but he cannot tell because Molag Bal is wearing a helmet and Inigo cannot see his face but he swears he can _feel_ him smirking at him and then Molag Bal turns away too and he walks into the portal behind Eres and then they are both gone and the portal closes and the burning rafters start to drop from the ceilings as the mansion falls apart at the seams and Inigo has to jump away, has to run from the mansion as it collapses in on itself and burns until there is nothing left.

Nothing.

Nothing left except a very bright light in the center, glowing even beneath the charred beams.

Inigo must wait for hours until the flames have died down enough for him to go inside.

He looks, but he does not find Eres. He does not think that he would. He had seen her disappear. He had seen her vanish.

He had known he would not find Eres, but he still aches when he climbs over the rubble and the charred wood and the still burning embers to that glowing light and he finds Dawnbreaker lying there, abandoned, still humming when he touches it.

This had been Eres’ favorite, blessed sword, and she had left it behind. Inigo already knew that she was not well but Inigo knows more than ever know that she would not have left this sword behind if she had gone on purpose, if she had gone because she wanted to.

Inigo knows better. Inigo knows Eres would not have gone on her own. Molag Bal must have done something evil to her. He must have possessed her, or charmed her, or enthralled her, or—Inigo does not know, exactly, but he knows that the Eres _he_ knows would not have followed Molag Bal into Coldharbour.

Inigo knows it must be Coldharbour, because he knows what a dimensional rift looks like, and he knows that Coldharbour is the place that Molag Bal would have taken her because that is Molag Bal’s home. Inigo is not stupid. The skooma has not taken all of his brains.

He had told Eres that, too. And now she was gone.

Now she is gone and it is his fault that Molag Bal has her and he had told her he would follow her everywhere and he would never leave her side and now she is _gone_ and she is _alone_ and Inigo is not done repaying his debts. He is not done with being her friend.

He liked being Eres’ friend.

Inigo holds Eres’ sword in his hands and he remembers that Eres has another friend. A friend that Eres said had opened a portal once to the Soul Cairn and she was a vampire and so _she_ was connected to Molag Bal, too, and maybe she would know how to get there.

Surely a vampire would know how to get to Coldharbour. That was where they were from, after all.

Inigo just has to find her.

Inigo throws his own sword out of its sheath and instead he places Dawnbreaker in it and holds it close to his body as he picks his way out of the wreckage of the mansion. He says sorry to M’que as he passes him and steals one of his horses. M’que will understand one day when he wakes up. Inigo did not mean to hurt him. Inigo would not have hurt him if he had a choice but he must get back to Skyrim and find the Dawnguard and the Dawnguard will know where to find the vampire, and the vampire will know how to get to Coldharbour and then _Inigo_ will know how to get to Coldharbour and he will bring Eres her sword and they can fight Molag Bal together.

They were supposed to do it together.

Inigo rides for what feels like many days and many nights and the guards almost arrest him at the border but they let him through finally and he keeps riding east until he sees Riften. He rides east even further until he sees the canyon pass, and he knows that is where Fort Dawnguard is because he had heard so many rumors of the Dawnguard even before he met Eres so of course he knew where it was and it was a good thing he does because he’s not sure how long it would have taken him to find it if he had not known already.

He rides through the canyon pass and into the fort and they let him in when he says he needs to speak to the leader about Eres and he runs and runs and runs until he has reached the stairs and the doors and then he is in the atrium staring up at a man with dark skin and a bald head and a long dark beard who talks like he has a sabrecat stuck in his throat that does his speaking for him.

“My men tell me you requested to speak with me,” the man says to him, and he has a sour expression that Inigo does not immediately like but this is the leader of the Dawnguard, so this must be Isran.

Eres had always spoken well of Isran. Sort of. Well enough. She did not hate him, at least.

“I am Inigo and I am a friend of Eres and—”

“Eres?”

There is another voice, female this time, and a woman steps out of a room nearby and she is very pale and her eyes are bright red and she is _very_ pretty for a human, even Inigo can see that. Behind her there is another woman who looks a bit older and with longer hair than the first woman but they both look very similar, and Inigo knows they must be related because they have the same dark hair and pale skin and red eyes and—

“You are Serana,” he says to the young looking one, which he hopes is Serana and not the older one. The older one is too old for Eres but the young one looks closer to her age and less mean. She is also the one who had come when she heard Eres’ name and so Inigo hopes that means this is the one he thinks it is.

“You know me?” Serana asks, and she exchanges a glance with the dark man, and neither of them look very happy to see him. When Serana looks back at Inigo again he feels _very_ small under her gaze and it kind of looks like she might kill him if he says the wrong thing which he is sure he is going to because he has nothing but bad news and bad news is never the right thing to say.

“What happened?” She demands, eyes red hot and burning and sharp and Inigo would like her to stop looking at him like it’s his fault, now, thank you, he _knows_ it is his fault but she does not have to look at him like that and he would prefer if she didn’t. Inigo had thought she looked nice but now she looks very mean and _very_ angry.

“She is—I—Inigo is,” his words fail him, now that he is looking at her. He has not slept in days. Inigo feels like he has forgotten how to speak Alessian. Wordlessly, he detaches Dawnbreaker’s sheath from his hip and he thrusts it toward her and the dark man. “Inigo needs your help.”

Serana does not take Dawnbreaker, but the leader does, and his frown is so deep that it looks like the lines are carved into his face with a knife. “This doesn’t look good, Serana,” he mutters darkly, holding the blade in his hands but not unsheathing it. “Eres wouldn’t just leave this behind.”

“She didn’t,” Inigo hurries. “Inigo saw her—Inigo saw her at the mansion, the mansion tried to kill her and it caught on fire and the mansion has killed five people before Eres and so it could have killed Eres too but it was him, it was the man in the black armor, Molag Bal, he was there an— _aack_!”

There’s a hand at his throat and a wall at his back and suddenly the floor is _much_ farther beneath him than it should be and he does not like being held up by the throat, he thinks. This is the first time it has happened to him but he thinks one time is enough to decide he doesn’t like it and _no_ , he does not like it at all—

“ _What_ was that?”

“Mo—lag-Bal,” he croaks out, around the hand that tightens dangerous around his throat. He slaps at the arm holding him up, tapping it impatiently, kicking out his legs and hoping she’ll let him go. “ _T—ook E-“_

The ground rushes up at him. He chokes on the air, coughing, as he climbs to his feet.

“Inigo is…also…very mad _,”_ he manages, and he looks back up at the vampire called Serana and the _other_ vampire behind her, and the dark-skinned man that is the leader of the Dawnguard and all three of them look stricken.

Inigo has always hated being the bearer of bad news.

“He took her to Coldharbour,” Inigo says at last, and he straightens, and he gives them his Most Serious Look and he hopes they take him seriously because he is being _very_ serious. He is not joking.

“Inigo needs you to send him to Coldharbour so that he can get her back.”

They stare at him. None of them laugh. The dark skinned man is who speaks first.

“And just how, pray tell,” he asks, “do you plan on bringing Eres back from _Coldharbour_ —if she really _is_ there, like you say she is?”

“She is,” Inigo says simply. “Inigo _will_ get her back, or he will die trying.” 

Serana’s hand darts out to his collar, snatching him near off his feet and he throws his hands up defensively, “Please do not choke me again!”

She yanks him close, red eyes blazing.

“Explain,” she orders him, voice trembling with fury—or fear. Inigo is not sure which. Maybe both. But she at least looks very, very angry. He thinks it would be best for him not to ask.

“ _Start talking_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, the next act is already drafted and currently being edited so you won't be left hanging for too long. Also, Serana's back! Finally. How I've missed her. 
> 
> The character status page has been updated, which you can find on my blog @ nightinngales / bios. The wiki @ nightinngales/ wiki is also the best place to go if you want to keep track of progress in the progress tab. Both pages are best viewed on desktop. 
> 
> The next act will finish out the Vigilant mod storyline, and future acts will focus more on vanilla Skyrim content. What a long journey this is...


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